


Instinct

by NixBlaque



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixBlaque/pseuds/NixBlaque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean Winchester finds a dog chained up and caged on a routine demon hunt, he and Bobby see no other option than to take him along for the ride. The last thing that either of them expect is the realisation that the dog is more than just a dog, a discovery which rocks Dean’s world to its very axis. Everything his father has ever told him says that anything that’s not human needs to be killed, but confronted by a shapeshifter named Sam who has managed to work his way straight into Dean’s heart, his instincts say otherwise.</p><p>Warnings for: Non brother au, brief descriptions of torture, explicit m/m sex, demons, violence and copious amounts of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We want to say a huge thank you to: kaelysta (LJ) for all of the fantastic art that she made for this fic, Sam for being the same fantastic beta that you always are, and to all of the people that gave us a gentle kick up the ass along the way.

 

Art by the wonderful Kaelysta, who understood what we needed without us ever having to tell her.

  


Dean was used to raiding the most god-awful places known to man. Sewer tunnels, morgues, abandoned factories, and – one memorable time – a butcher’s shop filled with the rotting meat that had been left there for over a month. 

None of that was anything compared to the sight that greeted him when he stepped inside the home of the latest in a long line of slain creatures – a demon, this time, with a penchant for kidnapping humans and other supernatural creatures alike, keeping them alive for weeks at a time before he killed them gruesomely. Dean was pretty sure that he’d never know what had been done to the creature’s innocent victims during the time between their kidnapping and their death.

If he was honest, he was pretty damn glad. He knew enough about demons to know that they could be more than a little creative.

The house, a previously abandoned property about a half-hour’s drive from the nearest town, could have – at first glance – been mistaken for some kind of meat-processing factory come laboratory. The walls were splattered with blood, and there was a set-up of four metal tables in a neat row down the centre of the room, chains hanging from the corners. The deep gouges and scratches in the otherwise smooth surfaces were proof enough that the people restrained had been at least partially aware of what was happening to them, and Dean’s stomach flipped at the realization.

Lining three of the four walls was a series of metal cages, not unlike those found in a vet’s office or an animal shelter, with heavy locks on the doors; the corners were shadowed, barely illuminated by the faint rays of light just managing to peek through the boarded up windows and the beam of the young hunter’s flashlight. Inside, body after body lay in varying stages of decay. It was clear that the demon had jumped ship before any hunters had even been close to him, and he’d left his victims suffering in the wake of his escape.

Some of them were unmistakably human, tortured and experimented on almost beyond recognition – until Dean struggled to tell them apart from each other, struggled to match them to the thick sheaf of missing person’s files in the Impala’s trunk. They’d died terrified and bloody, and Dean wished that he could send them back to be buried by their families – to offer them all that final modicum of closure, but he knew that it was impossible. 

They’d been innocent, sure enough, but the things that they must have experienced in their time as captives was recipe enough for the wake of more than one vengeful spirit, and it was safer to just burn the whole place down around them. If nothing else, they would rest easy.

“Anything?”

Dean jumped, caught off guard by the gruff voice behind him. A glance over his shoulder revealed Bobby Singer looking drawn and haggard, face pale and fingers white-knuckled around a heavy canister of gasoline. He knew that the older hunter must have been just as disappointed as he had been by the understanding that they’d arrived too late to do any good – there was no one left to save, and the only thing that they could do now was to burn the place to the ground.

“Just more bodies,” The younger man acknowledged with a sigh, swinging his flashlight around in one more hopeful arc. In one of the cages to his left, his beam caught on the flat eyes of a werewolf, eternally stuck mid-shift and he shivered at the sight; one hand was curled around the bars at the front, long fingers ending in pointed claws. “Two humans, a djinn in the corner. Couple of werewolves, and-“

He cut himself off, the faintest hint of movement registering in the corner of his eye, and he swung his flashlight back to the cage in the farthest corner of the room, a frown darkening across his features. Something shifted in the shadows, small enough that he couldn’t see anything more than a dirty tangle of blankets and a scum-encrusted water bowl tipped on his side. 

“Dean?”

The hunter hesitated for just a moment, slipping his gun from the back of his pants, in case this was some kind of trap. After all, everything else in the god-forsaken place had died – why was there an exception? He crept forwards on the balls of his feet, crouching slightly to see better into the depths, and swore when he finally made out what the metal cage contained.

“Dean?” Bobby demanded again, dropping the can of gasoline carefully by his feet and reaching instinctively for his own gun. “What the hell is it, boy?”

Dean waved him off, dropping to his knees and fumbling for his trusty lock-picking set, hands shaking a little as he slid them into the lock and deftly twisted them, listening intently for the tell-tale click. Only a few moments later, he was pulling the lock away and tugging the cage door open, leaning into it to block its occupant from escaping past him.

In the back corner, hazel eyes blinked up at him disinterestedly, ribs visibly shifting in shallow breaths under the creature’s thick fur. Dean expected some kind of aggression as he slipped his leather jacket it off his shoulder and wrapped it around the delicate frame, slipping his arms underneath it and lifting, but the dog barely reacted at all.

“Oh, Jeez,” Bobby breathed as Dean finally lifted the animal into view. It was a little bit bigger than Dean had first anticipated, perhaps the size of a small border collie, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on its body and in his arms it felt weightless. A thick, metal band was clasped so tightly around his neck that it had nearly broken skin, and Dean winced at the sight of it – suddenly understanding why the dog was breathing so shallowly. “Poor thing’s still a pup, too. Look at its paws.”

The younger hunter gently manoeuvred the animal to get a better look, feeling pity swell in the depths of his gut as he realized what his friend was getting at – in comparison to the size of his body, the dog’s paws looked positively huge, a clear indicator that he had more than a little growing left to do. He was almost surprised at the strength of his reaction to the sight, the feeling of his own hands tightening protectively around the animal, and it was with little hesitation that he spoke again.

“I’m gonna take him out to the Impala,” He announced. “See if I can get this godforsaken collar off his neck… wrap him in some blankets and try and warm him up, too. He’s freezing. Can you manage the rest by yourself?”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me? I was hunting before you were even diapers. I’m pretty sure I can handle burning a house to the ground.”

Dean grinned, barely remembering to collect his lock-picking set and flashlight off the floor before turning and making his way to the car, one hand reaching up and absently scratching the thick fur behind the dog’s ears.

**

  
The dog had remained almost alarmingly docile on the way back to the motel, seemingly quite content to be curled up in the backseat in a tangle of blankets. 

Dean had to admit that he might have gone a little overboard, creating a structure of blankets and towels that almost resembled a bird’s nest and tucking the puppy neatly into the middle of it. He’d received a lick on his hands for his efforts, before the dog had buried his nose in the musty blankets and finally let his eyelids slip shut. 

After a slight disagreement about whether or not they should bath him straight away, Bobby finally relented that the poor animal stunk, and dug through his truck until he found a bottle of dog shampoo that he kept on hand. Dean gently untangled him from his jacket, and lowered him into the motel’s tub, grinning with something that almost felt like pride when the dog locked his shaky legs and bowed his head with determination.

“There’s a boy,” He praised quietly, soothingly running his hand over the dog’s head. “We’ll clean you up quickly, alright? And then we’ll find some food for you.”

He kept one hand underneath the dog’s stomach, supporting him as Bobby manoeuvred the shower head and washed him quickly and thoroughly. The water that dripped off his coat was dark with blood and filth, sudsy with the residue of the shampoo and Dean did his best to gently untangle the small mats of fur. By the time that Bobby was turning the shower off, he looked almost like a different dog.

Where his fur had looked almost black before, it was now apparent that he had dark brown fur across his back and along his nose, lightening out into a soft crème on his underbelly and legs. 

“Looks like some kind of husky mix,” The elder hunter guessed, running a towel through the animal’s fur. “Maybe malamute or, hell, by the size of those paws I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he was part wolf.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at that, carefully lifting the dog back out of the tub and carrying him back into the main room. Bobby had been spouting off something about malnutrition and gradual feeding, and Dean couldn’t shake off the strange sensation of spine shifting underneath fur, and the younger hunter cooked up a bowl of microwaveable hot dogs and set them on the floor in front of him.

For a long moment, the dog didn’t move, and then he twisted his head to sniff at the bowl and slowly began to eat. Dean found himself watching the smaller animal like a hawk, frowning when he only managed three hot dogs before collapsing back down on his side and falling asleep almost instantly.

“You think he’s okay?” Dean asked hesitantly, eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of the animal’s ribs. “I mean, he was just left in that shithole for god only knows how long… he could have problems from that, couldn’t he? He could be sick.”

Bobby smiled softly. “It’s possible, but he seems like a strong enough little pup. It’ll take a while to build his strength back up, but I have a feeling that he’s gonna pull through.”

Dean nodded, and Bobby felt his smile grow at the realization that Dean was already so attached; there was no way that the pup was going anywhere. Bobby would bet his life on the fact that by the time the animal was back on his feet, he and Dean would be inseparable.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, son?” Bobby questioned quietly. “He’s not going anywhere. Not tonight.”

Dean nodded slowly, turning his eyes to the pup one last time before finally heading for the bathroom himself. Behind him, Bobby smothered a grin behind his hand and turned to root through the cupboards for food.

**

Dean drifted into wakefulness slowly, more warm and comfortable than he had come to expect from a night spent in a motel room… particularly the places that they tended to stay in, where the vacancy signs were missing letters and the carpets were stained with more bodily fluids than could ever be considered sanitary. For a long while, he was content to let himself drift between consciousness and slumber, reluctant to rise himself for another day of a gruelling fitness regiment and far too many hours cooped up at one of the ridiculously small tables in the nearest library.

Eventually, the ever-increasing pressure on his bladder forced his hand, and he reluctantly blinked his eyes open. The bed to the left of his was empty, sheets casually tossed back over the mattress in an indifferent attempt to make the bed, and a piece of folded up motel stationary proudly declared:  _GONE FOR COFFEE, 10.30. BACK SOON. – B._

Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes, grinning affectionately at the sight, because if there was any one person in the world that came close to the Winchester appreciation of coffee, it was Bobby. It wasn’t until he shifted his body in an effort to stand that he first registered the warm weight resting against the side of his body, settled in against his shoulder. He was already reaching for his gun by the time that his brain registered that it was just the pup, long-ingrained instincts causing his hand to tighten briefly around the butt of the gun before releasing it.

At some point during the night, the young creature seemed to have abandoned his tangled nest of blankets on the floor in favour of climbing in next to Dean, though how he’d managed to snuggle himself so tightly to the hunter’s chest without waking him was anyone’s guess. Whilst Dean undoubtedly enjoyed his sleep, he was a hunter through and through, trained to wake at the slightest noise or movement. 

He couldn’t exactly bring himself to be mad whilst the pup was snoozing happily away however, and he knew that if his need for the bathroom hadn’t been such a pressing issue, he’d likely have lain there until the animal had awoken of its own accord. As it was, he settled for murmuring an apology as he gently extracted himself, pausing to scratch behind the animal’s ears when sleepy hazel eyes finally blinked open. 

The dog half-wagged his tail lazily, shifting over a little to give Dean his belly, and the young hunter spent a few moments simply making a fuss of him before finally making his escape to the bathroom.

He left the door to the bathroom ajar as he relieved himself and stepped into the shower, keeping an ear out for subtle snick of the lock that would announce Bobby’s arrival. His father had taught him from a young age that privacy was in no way essential, but survival was – and when he was sharing a motel room with another hunter, locked doors were always left open. Having back up was no good if they couldn’t get inside the room to defend you.

Only a few minutes later, the door swung open and shut with a thud, and there was the distinctive sound of keys and a handgun behind dropped on the rickety table.

“Got your coffee,” Bobby announced, rustling around with something. “And I brought back breakfast.”

The smell of bacon drifted into the bathroom, and Dean rushed through the rest of his shower, escaping back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist as quickly as he could. Bobby was tucking into a hearty pile of pancakes and sausages, and he barely offered Dean a second glance as the young hunter rifled through his duffel for some clothes.

The dog had relocated himself from the bed to the small space underneath Bobby’s chair, head ducked and watching the floor for anything that might get dropped. Apparently at some time between the night before and Dean getting out of the shower, he’d found his appetite. 

“Not like you to sleep so late,” Bobby offered as the younger hunter settled opposite him, and grinned mischievously. “Or to snuggle.”

Dean flipped the lid off his own breakfast, grinning wider at the sight of it piled high on the plastic tray, and shrugged his shoulders. “Had to make sure he didn’t freeze, didn’t I?”

Bobby snorted a little at the response, shaking his head at the kid’s quick-wit. If there was one good thing that Dean Winchester had inherited from his stubborn-ass father, it was his ability to throw back an easy retort no matter what was shot at them. 

“Speaking of the mutt,” Bobby continued conversationally. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”

Dean blinked dumbly. “What?”

“A  _name_ , idjit. Something to call him? Pup just ain’t doing it for me.”

The younger hunter seemed genuinely startled, leaning back in his seat and blinking rapidly. Underneath the table, there was a faint brush against his leg as the dog darted out from underneath Bobby’s chair and settled himself underneath Dean’s. 

“I don’t…” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, I’m not gonna be able to give him up, am I? I was going to just take him to the shelter.”

Underneath his chair, the dog whined low and quiet, and Bobby frowned a little. “You still could, if you really wanted to. Nobody’s going to make you keep him, son, I just got the impression that you wanted him to stick around.”

Dean sighed. “I… Damn it, I do. I just… you know what dad’s always said about pets. That they don’t fit in with the life.”

“Dean, you’re an adult,” Bobby pointed out. “You don’t have to run all of your decisions past your father. So what if he’s not happy about it? What is he going to do about it? And that whole bullshit about them not fitting in with the life is bullshit. Did my Rummy ever look like he didn’t love his life?”

“No, he always seemed happy.”

“Well, then. There you go. If you don’t wanna let the dog go, then don’t make him leave. Simple as that.”

Underneath the seat, the dog finally seemed to realize that he wasn’t getting any food, and curled into a small ball, resting his head on Dean’s foot. The hunter looked down, taking in the narrow muzzle across the bridge of his foot, hazel eyes shut in a peaceful rest, and he knew that Bobby was right. There was no way that he could give the dog up. As stupid as it was, he was already far too attached for that.

No, the dog was there to stay.

“I have literally no ideas for a name.” Dean admitted after a pregnant pause, and Bobby’s face broke into a grin at the confession. “Like, how do you ever name a dog? Where did you come up with  _Rumsfeld,_  for god’s sakes?”

Instead of taking offence at the slight against his naming skills, Bobby only grinned wider. “That’s something you’ll have to figure out for yourself, boy. Rum already had his name when I picked him up for the shelter.”

Dean groaned.

“In the meantime,” Bobby continued. “You might want to think about getting him some dog food and bowls and stuff… and a collar and a leash. Sooner or later the poor animal’s gonna need the bathroom.”

**

By the end of the day, Dean was nearly three-hundred dollars poorer, and the dog was an official part of the family. There was the possibility that he might have gone a little overboard after Bobby had let him loose in the pet store, chuckling to himself as he pushed the cart behind the younger hunter. 

The pessimistic part of him that had been concerned about leaving the dog alone half expected it to be gone by the time that he got back, but instead he found it curled up in a ball on top of Dean’s bed, and he couldn’t help the relieved grin that crossed his face.

“You,” He said, pointing accusingly at the dog, doing his best to hide the emotion. “Have just cost me a fortune. You’d better be worth it, mutt!”  
As if in response, the dog jumped neatly down from the bed and padded across the motel room carpet to press his head in to Dean’s hand a lick gently across his palm. Dean reached up to scratch behind his ears almost instinctively, before turning away to dump his purchases on his bed. Across the room, Bobby sunk onto his own bed, flicking the TV on as he kicked off his boots and settled back against his pillows.

The bonus of being between cases was the rare opportunity to rest, and it seemed that he was more than content to make use of that opportunity. 

Dean didn’t pay much attention to what the older hunter was watching, tugging one of the few toys that he’d found himself tossing into the cart out of the bag and gently throwing it to the dog. His tail wagged as he caught it, and he settled down with it in his mouth.

From the TV, the voice of a female news reporter sounded,  _“In other news, authorities are currently investigating what has been reported as a ‘suspicious’ fire at the Redfern house late last night. A representative from the Sherriff’s office has confirmed that they suspect that the fire was the result of arson, though claims that bodies were found in the wreckage have yet to be verified. The house, previously owned by one Sam-"_

On the floor, the dog’s ears pricked up and he turned to stare at the TV as if he’d been called. Dean frowned a little, eyes meeting Bobby’s over the animal’s head.

“Sam,” He called softly, and the dog turned to face him, tail wagging lazily. Against his better judgement Dean found himself grinned. “Well, then. Guess that saves me a job… Sam it is.”


	2. Chapter 2

  


The next morning brought with it the possibility of a hunt, and Dean could feel the familiar swirl of excitement and anticipation through his gut as Bobby read him the details from the back of a coffee-stained sheet of motel stationary.

The two of them had been roused that morning by a call from Pastor Jim, a friend of Dean’s father and Bobby alike, and one who Dean had spent a lot of time with whilst he was growing up. Once a hunter himself, the Pastor had long since given up the life in favour of setting up his own church, with a small but faithful flock of attendees. Since then, he’d passed on more than a few hunts to John Winchester and a few other hunters, passing them over himself for fear that one day one might follow him home.

His rectory in Blue Earth had become a safe-haven of sorts for Dean when he was a child, comparable only to Singer Salvage, and the Pastor had gradually wormed his way into the Winchester’s lives until he’d firmly cemented himself as family.

This time, it appeared to be an angry ghost that he’d led them to – the kind of hunt that Dean usually found boring – but he’d lured them in with the promise of his infamous homemade Cherry pie. After that, the two hunters had agreed in record time.

They’d stuck in town just long enough to pack up their stuff, and for Dean to take Sam for a walk whilst Bobby checked the local news one last time for any updates, before they’d packed their stuff up and hit the road.

Predictably, that was when John had phoned.

If he was honest, Dean had spent a long moment deliberating between whether or not he should answer. In the end, it was the realization that ignoring it would cause more hassle than good that had him picking it up, glancing guiltily at Sam as he did so.

“Hello?”

“Dean?” John asked, voice familiar and gruff. “You were supposed to ring me after you torched that place. What happened?”

“Shit,” Dean swore, resisting the urge to slam his head off the steering wheel. “I… I kind of forgot.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Dean could practically feel the tension over the phone mounting. “You forgot? You gonna explain that one a little further, there?”

“I, uh,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, just as nervous as if his father was sat right there next to him. “We found a dog. He was the only thing still alive in the place, and I guess I got carried away making sure that he was okay, and I forgot to call.”

“A dog?”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, dad. A dog.”

“Have you tested him?”

Dean blinked stupidly, swerving dramatically when he realized that he’d nearly cruised past his exit. The Impala responded to him just as easily as she always had, making the tight bend with room to spare, and the young men grinned to himself even as a series of car horns blared behind him. “Tested him for  _what_? He’s a dog.”

“If you haven’t tested him yet,” John growled. “Then how do you know that for sure? For all you know you’re driving around with a skinwalker in the passenger seat, Dean. I trained you better than that. Or I thought, I had, at least.”

Dean felt his own irritation swell. 

“You trained me to be paranoid, Dad,” He bit out. “But I’m not gonna live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t need you to sign off on every decision I make, and it’s about time that you realized that. Sam’s staying.”

Dean could practically see his father’s face reddening in anger across the line, and when the older man spoke again, his tone was acidic.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He responded finally. “Jim mentioned he’d found a hunt for you. I’ll meet you in Blue Earth in a few weeks.”

**

The brief phone conversation with his father had left Dean antsy and agitated, shifting irritably in his seat, and it wasn’t until Sam had tucked himself against the side of his leg and rested his head on the hunter’s knee that the young man felt himself begin to relax. 

In a way, it had almost felt good to finally stand up to his father. Dean had practically worshipped the man growing up, always following a step behind him and trying to live up to the older man’s expectations, and it wasn’t until he was fifteen and his father had messed up the timings on a hunt and landed the two of them in hospital that Dean had started to see the man for what he really was. He was disillusioned about the fact that John Winchester was doing his best – it had been a cruel twist of fate that had torn Mary from them, a demon with a penchant for destruction and fire, and weaker men would have broken in the aftermath.

Instead, John had grown harder and colder and had trained himself to be the best hunter that he could possibly be. The problem was that, somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten that Dean wasn’t just a soldier in his quest for revenge – instead of seeing his son, he’d started seeing a soldier, and Dean had been too wrapped up in his hero-worship to realize it at first.

In some ways, he’d grown to resent that part of his father, but he’d never stopped being obedient. John had failed as a father, and Dean wouldn’t hesitate to admit that to himself, but he was a damn fine hunter and – if nothing else – they both wanted to end the sorry sonofabitch that had killed Mary Winchester.

Dean had fallen under thumb and, for twenty-one years, he’d bitten his tongue. It was high time that he found his voice.

“My dad can be a little bit of a jackass,” Dean admitted over the faint stirrings of Metallica playing through the speakers. Sam twisted his head to look at him, ears perking up as Dean spoke, and the young hunter could practically hear him saying,  _‘go on. I’m listening.’_  “He’s all about the hunt, you know? Obsessed, almost. But he’s a good man, and he loves me.”

Sam’s tail gave a small wag.

“I guess… thinks might have been different if I’d stuck up for myself a little sooner. Bobby always did tell me that one day I’d have to stand on my own two feet instead of hiding in his shadow… honestly, I hadn’t even realized that was what I was doing. I guess I have you to thank for my sudden epiphany, hey, Sam?”

Sam gave a little woof, tail wagging more vigorously against the Impala’s leather upholstery, and Dean dropped one hand off the steering wheel to tangle in the fur around the animal’s neck. His eyes flickered to the red leather collar, smiling a little to himself at the clear declaration of ownership. It was a clear contrast to the heavy metal that had been clasped around the young dog’s neck when he and Bobby had found him, and Dean had been honestly surprised that the animal had let him clasp it around his neck.

Instead of flinching away like he’d expected, Sam had sat tall and proud with his head held high, tail wagging in pleasure. For the first time he could recall, Dean wished that he had listened to Bobby’s suggestions that he get a dog months beforehand, shortly after the elder hunter had lost his Rumsfeld to a wendigo with uncanny aim. 

It was ridiculous how different driving with Sam cuddled up to him felt than driving alone, and it wasn’t until Dean had tangled his finger’s in the creature’s fur that he realized for the first time that he’d been lonely for a long time. Perhaps since before he’d left his father, when their car rides were filled with long silences and the faint rustle of take-away coffee cups. 

Sam licked his hand gently, and Dean grinned despite himself.

“I think I’m gonna like having you around, pup.” He confessed to the quiet of the car, and reached over to knock the volume up on the stereo, grinning all the while. 

In front of him, Bobby indicated to turn into the gas station on their right, and Dean glanced briefly at the Impala’s gas gauge before pulling in behind him. He still had a quarter of a tank, but his father had long since drilled into him that in the life of a hunter, a nearly-empty tank was just as useless as an empty one. Whether you were running from some kind of supernatural creature, or simply from the authorities, it never hurt to have a little extra fuel when you needed it most.

He gently nudged the dog off his knee, gratefully stretching as he climbed out of the car, arching his back and sighing in relief when it cracked audibly, and he felt the pent-up tension in his back release. 

“You’re cracking and snapping like an old man over there,” Bobby grinned. “I thought that was my job.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve been slacking recently. Figured I’d remind you of what you’re supposed to be doing… old man.”

“Cheeky sod.” Bobby grinned. “Just gas your car up and shut your trap. How’s the dog doing?”

Dean grinned like a proud parent. “You’d think he’d lived on the road his entire life.”

“Good,” Bobby nodded. “I had a feeling he’d settle into things well enough. Quite honestly, anything has to be a step-up from that shithole that we found him in. Just remember to give him a bathroom break before we hit the road again… don’t think you’d appreciate him making a mess of your baby’s seats there.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Duly noted.”

**

It was nearly eight in the evening by the time that they were pulling into the small driveway behind Pastor Jim’s house, the setting sun casting the sky into shades of pink and ivory. Against the vivid skyline, the silhouette of the rectory created an almost haunting picture. 

In the passenger seat, Sam stamped his feet almost anxiously, and Dean raised his eyebrow a little. The dog had been calm for the entire journey, dozing lightly or entertaining himself with the squeaky toy that Dean had tucked into the footwell for him, and it took him a few minutes to register that the animal probably needed the bathroom.

The Pastor was waiting for them on the porch, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway with a small smile on his face. Dean couldn’t help but grin at the familiar sight of him; the man was one of few people that his father had ever trusted enough to leave him with, and the Pastor had become somewhat of an uncle when he was growing up. He could remember many a time that his father had tucked him into the backseat with a few blankets and the promise that,  _“we’ll be at Jim’s soon, son. We’ll go to the diner whilst we’re there, hey?”_

“Damn, it’s good to be back.” He muttered to himself, easing the Impala to a stop in one of the two spaces that Jim always kept cleared, parking his own well-worn truck out front, just in case the Winchester’s ever needed a place to crash. Bobby pulled in behind him, keeping John’s space free out of habit, and Dean grinned a little to himself. He could recall more than one argument between the two elder hunters as to who had rights to park in the free space.

Almost as soon as he turned the engine off, the Pastor was at his window, reaching through the squeeze his shoulder with a grin. “It’s good to see you, Dean. It’s been far too long.”

Dean nodded his agreement, and it was then that the Pastor first seemed to notice Sam. His eyes widened, face breaking into a grin, and he leant further into the car to get a good look at him.

“Who’s this? You didn’t tell me that you’d picked up a friend.” He reached forwards with his arm, extending his hand for the animal to smell, and Dean didn’t know which of them was more surprised when the dog backed away and cowered into the corner where the seat met the door. Jim turned to look at the hunter apologetically, but Dean shook his head.

“It’s not you, man,” He reassured. “Bobby and I rescued Sam here from that demon we were hunting. The thing had him all caged and chained, and then he’d just left him behind to die, and, well… I guess he was too out of it to be nervous when we rescued him. I should really have figured that he’d be a little scared.”

Jim’s icy blue eyes softened, and Dean could practically see the Pastor’s good nature kicking in big time. It was one of the things that Dean had always loved about him, and the reason that his home had always been the dwelling place of numerous stray dogs and cats over the years.

“Well, he’s fully entitled to be a little nervous,” The Pastor grinned, glancing over his shoulder as Bobby pulled into the driveway, parking neatly behind the Impala. “Why don’t you grab your stuff and come inside? I’ll put Oscar upstairs so that he doesn’t terrorize the poor thing too terribly, and then serve up our dinner. You think he’ll be alright with Mitsy and Buttons?”

Dean nodded, gratefully stepping out of the car and pausing to stretch once more before moving out of the way so that Sam could climb out. Eyes locked warily on the Pastor, Sam obediently slunk along the seats with his tail tucked so far between his legs that it was touching his belly, and wedged himself into the small space between Dean’s legs and the car as soon as he’d jumped down from the leather seats.

“Big wuss,” Dean muttered affectionately, being careful not to step on the pup’s paws as he headed for the Impala’s trunk. The hunter paused for a few seconds at the back of the car, reaching down to soothe a hand across the animal’s still-trembling form, ignoring the knowing look that Bobby shot him as he headed inside. He didn’t straighten up until Sam seemed to have calmed a little, tail still tucked between his legs but not quite so tightly, and it was only then that he reached for his duffel, and the second that he’d acquired earlier that morning to carry Sam’s stuff in. He could have sworn that Sam’s was heavier than he remembered. 

The smell of sausage casserole wafted out from the open kitchen door and Dean grinned, breathing deep as he stepped inside the small house and gently kicked the screen door shut behind him, ensuring that Sam was safely inside before he did so. Jim was already dishing the casserole into bowls, humming a hymn under his breath that Dean distantly recognized from a childhood of crawling around under the long benches in the rectory. 

The hunter hesitated in the doorway for a few seconds, watching the way that Sam had tucked himself firmly behind the hunter’s legs, before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to walk across the floor without scooping the dog into his arms. Whilst he more than understood why the dog was so scared, he also knew better than to coddle him; if he ever wanted him to get better, he’d have to implement a little tough love now and again.

Sam seemed lost as to what to do for a long moment, wide eyes following Dean as he sauntered across the room, dropping the duffel bags to the floor and sinking into a seat. As if recognizing that his owner wasn’t going anywhere soon, Sam shot across the room so quickly that his paws scrabbled briefly for traction on the tiled floor, ducking into the small space beneath Dean’s chair.

Jim had drug out the dog bed he kept in the house for when Bobby headed over to stay a few days with Rumsfeld, tucked neatly into an alcove where a kitchen cupboard had once sat beneath the counter surface. Despite having made the effort to create a safe place for Sam to retreat to, the Pastor seemed intent to ignore the dog for now, which Dean figured was probably the best approach to the whole thing.

A few seconds of rooting around in Sam’s bag turned up a few of the ratty old blankets that Dean had initially wrapped him with and a stuffed cat which Bobby had chucked into the basket with a chuckle, and Dean headed over to tuck them in the basket. Sam followed at his heels, watching his actions with pricked ears. Hesitantly, as if testing whether or not Dean was going to tell him off for doing it, Sam stepped onto the soft bedding and gradually let himself relax onto the soft surface.

“Poor thing,” Jim muttered.

“You should have seen how they were keeping him,” Dean sighed. “I’ll be amazed if he ever  _doesn’t_  freak out every time he walks past something that even vaguely resembles a cage… on the plus side, he seems to be pretty damn sure that this is where he wants to be. I keep forgetting to put the bloody leash on him, but he hasn’t so much as  _attempted_  to run away.”

“He probably thinks of you as his hero.” Jim teased, settling down opposite him and handing Dean the bowl of food and a spoon. Bobby reappeared from the hallway, collecting his own bowl from the counter and settling into his seat with a grateful sigh. Across the room, Sam’s ears pricked and he picked his head up from the blanket to eye the bowl of food in Dean’s hand.

For his part, the hunter did his best to pretend that he hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t help a smile as the pup slowly manoeuvred out of the dog bed and through the kitchen (giving Jim a wide berth as he did so).He didn’t stop until he was at Dean’s side, and even then it was a few more moments before he plucked up the courage to rest his head on the hunter’s thigh, and then rest his paw next to it.

“You think perhaps the young pup is hungry?” Pastor Jim laughed, and tipped his head questioningly towards the half-empty dish of casserole. Dean hesitated, and then nodded as he slipped a hand down to run through the soft fur behind Sam’s ears.

Jim fished the dog bowl out of the still-open duffel and tipped a generous portion of the food into the dish before setting it on the floor and turning to quickly wash and dry the spoon he’d used in the sink. Glancing briefly at Dean, the dog slowly made his way across the kitchen – pausing briefly at the bowl of casserole before leaning over it to give the Pastor’s hand a gentle lick.

When Jim turned around, his eyes were damp.

  
**

It didn’t take them long to figure out that, despite the cushy dog bed, Sam didn’t like sleeping alone. When Dean had headed up to bed after a discussion of the case with Jim, Sam had been sleeping soundly in his basket, curled up tightly with his tail tucked up around his nose.

The hunter had awoken less than an hour later to desperate scratching at his door, a low whining sound giving way every few seconds to frantic little yips, barks and broken-off howls. By the time that Dean had realized what was happening and gotten the door open, Jim and Bobby had emerged from their own rooms and Sam had pressed himself against the door, making a high-pitched keening noise and trembling.

“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean breathed, crouching to the dog’s level - completely uncaring of the sharp glare that Jim sent his way for the blasphemy. Sam’s head came up at Dean’s voice, and he launched himself at the crouched figure, pressing himself as close to Dean’s chest as possible and hooking his chin over the hunter’s shoulder, allowing Dean to feel the frantic heaving of his ribs.

“I think,” Bobby said tiredly, yawning and running a hand through his hair. “That next time you should probably just bring him up to bed with you.”

“I think I agree.” Dean agreed, tucking Sam into his chest and standing slowly. The animal didn’t move other than to press closer, and he couldn’t help but feel an irrational surge of pride that in a desperate panic, Dean had been the person that Sam had run to. Logically, he knew that Sam had probably picked him because he had spent the most time with the animal, but it was still a heart-warming realization.

When the hunter climbed into bed the second time, it was with a much calmer Sam pressed against his chest. He fell asleep faster than he had in years, fingers still tangled in the soft fur on the back of Sam’s head, where the animal’s head rested on his shoulder.

There were no nightmares that night; no flashes of fire and his mother screaming. No fractured memories of being eleven and lost in the woods, painfully aware that – somewhere out there – a Wendigo was hunting humans; of being sixteen and feeling a werewolf’s claws bite deep into his chest. Instead, he dreamt of a long forgotten Christmas – his mother smiling as she handed him a warm cookie, presents under the tree and a smiling John telling Dean that he was allowed to open one before he went to bed.

In his dream, Sam was sat next to him, little puppy tail wagging excitedly behind him and a shiny red collar around his neck.

“ _You look after him, Dean.”_  His mother told him gently, running her gentle hand through the young boy’s hair. _“He’s more than he seems, but the world doesn’t have to be black and white. Sam already loves you dearly, and you must remember that no matter what.”_

When Dean woke up the next morning, he couldn’t help but turn the words over in his head, wondering just what exactly his mother had meant. More pressingly, just why his subconscious mind felt fit to dredge memories of his mother up at all – Dean had been four when she died and, although he hated to admit it, he honestly didn’t remember that much about her. Usually dreams of her were fleeting, memories of her smile or golden hair or the way that she smelt; certainly, they’d never before been of memories of the Christmas just before he’d turned four.

“I think you’re getting to me, man,” Dean muttered, gently running his fingers through the pup’s fur, before untangling himself and grabbing some clothes out of the duffel. He made sure to leave the bedroom door open, and only pulled the bathroom door until it lay against the frame but was still technically open, before stripping and climbing in the shower. 

He cleaned quickly and efficiently, pausing to shave, before heading out feeling a little more awake and certainly a lot brighter. Sam was sitting next to the door, staring resolutely out into the hallway as if guarding it, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It seemed that he and Sam were going to get along just fine. 

“Breakfast time.” He grinned, giving the dog a quick stroke hello before dumping his sleep pants on the floor of his room and heading downstairs. Jim had left some coffee, still reasonably hot, on the kitchen counter, alongside a quickly scrawled note: _Gone to see to the flock, Bobby is with me. Back at ten. Please remember to feed the cats ( & Sam). – Jim._

Dean scoffed a little at the implication that he might forget to feed his new companion, but appreciated that it wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d forgotten to put out food for the three rectory cats. He figured that the biggest of the three, Oscar, had been seeking revenge for his lack of breakfast when he’d sunk his claws into Dean’s ankle the last time he’d been there, and proceeded to cling on for dear life.

Muttering to himself about ungrateful preachers, Dean set about making the animals some breakfast, dishing it out into three slightly smaller dishes and Sam’s bigger one, before laying all four on the floor. Sam went for his with no complaints, Dean ensuring to nudge Oscar to the cat bowl furthest away when he emerged from the back of the house, but Mitsy and Buttons took their time coming in from the back porch – apparently they were more than a little wary of Sam, even if he did seem content in ignoring the two smaller creatures entirely.

Dean mentally added a reason number thirty-eight to the ‘Reasons that John should be happy that Dean has Sam’ (alternatively known as the ‘why John shouldn’t hate Sam’) category:  _Doesn’t hate cats. Even when they try and bite his tail._

**

The gig seemed easy enough, a salt and burn that Jim probably could have taken care of himself if he didn’t have a reputation as a respectable Pastor to uphold, and he and Bobby decided to split up to try and find the grave faster. Dean debated for a while about whether or not to take Sam, before he figured that Sam would probably be a mess by the time he got back if he left alone. The pup seemed to suffer from a  _slight_  case of separation anxiety, if the events of the previous night were anything to go by. 

Then again, there was always the risk that Sam – like plenty of other dogs Dean had come across in his years as a hunter – would get one glimpse of the spook and freak out or run off. It seemed pointless now to even deny that Dean cared about the stupid mutt; whilst he’d never really pictured himself getting a dog (despite Bobby’s hinting), he couldn’t deny that it seemed to suit him just fine. In a way, it was nice to have someone who trusted him implicitly, and who Dean could trust without fear of ulterior motives – he knew enough to know that dogs were loyal, and that kind of commitment was exactly what Dean needed in his life, whether he was ready to admit it or not.

“You,” Dean told the dog, easing the Impala into the small cemetery car park and forcing as much frustration into his tone as he could manage. “Are seriously forcing me to re-evaluate, you mangy mutt.”

Sam harrumphed as if in annoyance at the comment, turning his head away to stare out of the window. Not for the first time, Dean had to remind himself that it was just a coincidence – Sam was a  _dog,_  he didn’t speak English.

“Right,” The hunter muttered to himself, eyeing his canine companion warily before glancing to the leash and collar that he’d tucked into the footwell of the passenger seat. “Leash or no leash?” 

The dog didn’t react, but Dean found himself opposed to the idea of a leash on a hunt – the last thing he wanted was to give the spirit something that they could potentially use as a weapon. He didn’t want his choice to be the thing that got an innocent animal hurt, or potentially killed. After a few moments deliberation, he settled on the red leather collar that Bobby had picked out in the pet shop – the small, bone-shaped tag on the front simply containing both Dean’s and Bobby’s mobile numbers. 

Recalling with distaste and anger the heavyset metal collar that had bitten into Sam’s neck when he was in the hands of the demon, Dean set out a quick prayer that the dog wouldn’t panic, and then gently eased the leather around his neck. Sam trembled visibly, head hunched low, but he didn’t try and bite, or snarl, simply let Dean clasp the collar onto him.

“It’s alright, Buddy,” Dean muttered, running a hand over the animal’s shaking flank, feeling the fast thrum of his heart through his fur. “I don’t want to hurt you – this is just in case you get lost. It means that, no matter what happens, I’ll always have a way to get you back. Sound good?”

Sam nudged his nose under Dean’s arm, and gave the hunter’s wrist a gentle lick.

“Okay, then.” Dean smoothed a hand over the animal’s ears once more, dropping an impulsive kiss on the top of his head, before opening the Impala’s door and climbing out. Sam padded along the seat, dropping out only seconds after Dean and indulging in a few moments of stretching. Watching the extension of his legs, Dean was reminded a little of a ballerina, and couldn’t help but snort a little. Sam turned and gave him a baleful look, as if he knew what the hunter was thinking.

Rolling his eyes, Dean quickly located his duffel bag and shovel, slinging them over his shoulder before shutting the Impala’s door and tucking his keys into his pocket.

“Alright,” He said conversationally as the two of them headed deeper into the cemetery, keeping his voice quiet. “So, here’s the plan. Either I find the grave and ring Bobby, or he finds the grave and rings me, and then we dig it up and burn the bones as quick as we can.” Dean turned his eyes to Sam. “Think you can manage that?”

Sam wagged his tail.

 

**

 

The grave was fairly easy to locate – there was only one Maria Bukov in the entire place, and the large statue of an angel gave away the location of the woman’s grave. Dean unceremoniously dumped his duffel next to the neat line of grass that marked the edge of the grave, ensuring that his shotgun wasn’t out of reach before wedging his flashlight between the statues arm and her wing, the beam falling directly on the grave and illuminating the area around him. Grabbing his phone, he quickly relayed his location to Bobby, before cracking his back and getting to work.

He dug as quickly and efficiently as he could, practice making his movements sure and effortless; still, he thought he was making more progress than usual, and it wasn’t until he looked up that he realized that he wasn’t the only one digging. Sam was shifting an impressive amount of dirt with his forepaws, ears pressed tight to his head as if to stop mud from flying into them, tail lightly wagging. 

“Should have figured you’d like digging.” Dean laughed, shaking his head a little before getting back to work. The sooner they could get the digging over and done with, the less chance there would be of the spirit turning up.

Almost in the same instant that Dean completed that very thought, the temperature around them – warm enough that Dean had tossed both his leather jacket and flannel shirt aside – dropped considerably. Sam’s growl and sharp bark gave Dean just enough warning to duck, before a large tree branch whistled through the air that his head had been occupying only seconds before.

Swearing, Dean scrambled for the shotgun, his hands slick with sweat and mud. Before his hand had firmly closed around the butt of the gun, it shot out of his grasp, a ghostly face appearing mere inches from his own. Startled, Dean jerked backwards, nearly slipping on the soft terrain beneath his boots. 

In the same instant, Sam launched himself out of the hole the two of them had created – straight for the spirit. 

“No!”

Dean lurched forwards seconds too late to stop the canine figure, a sick feeling settling into the pit of his stomach as he hoisted himself out of the grave, glancing around in a desperate bid to locate his canine companion, and the shotgun.

The gun was nowhere in sight, and mere meters away, Sam was crouched, hackles raised impressively high. In the complete opposite of everything his studies had ever suggested that an animal should do, Sam hadn’t run away. Instead, his lips had pulled back to reveal sharp teeth as he snarled, the sound evil-sounding. Most surprisingly of all, the ghost wasn’t attacking.

Oh, she looked angry, alright. Angry and perplexed, occasionally charging at Sam only to jerk back a meter or so away from him – fear on her face. Dean wondered, distantly, whether it was simply the human recollection of how dangerous a dog could be that was giving Sam his power.  

Either way, the hunter knew that the only way to get rid of the spirit without the salt rounds handy would be to torch to her bones whilst she was distracted, and wasted no time in dropping back into the hole and digging furiously, ignoring the discomfort in his hands. Only a minute or so later, his shovel hit the lid of the coffin with a heavy sounding thud; he tossed it onto the grass above him without ceremony, fumbling around for a few seconds before finally throwing the lid off. 

He raised a hand to grab the straps of his duffel, searching for it blindly, and a loud yelp sounded, his only warning before Sam tumbled over the edge of the grave, knocking Dean over as he fell, in the same instant that the hunter’s hand closed around the strap of his bag. 

Landing on the bones of an unfortunate dead girl wasn’t exactly the highlight of Dean’s evening, that was for sure. An unearthly wail from above them proved that Maria hadn’t exactly enjoyed the experience, either, and Dean was bracing himself for something else to be launched at him when the familiar retort of a shotgun rang out from overhead. 

It seemed that Bobby had finally found them.

Sighing in relief, Dean fumbled for the lid on the gasoline canister, dousing the bones liberally with it as he urged Sam back out of the grave. The dog climbed out easily enough, one leap enough to carry him over the edge, and Dean followed him over.

Bobby was standing with his back to them, eyes trained for any sign of the ghost, shotgun clasped easily in his hands, and Dean knew that nothing would be getting past the hunter. Upturning nearly an entire tub of salt onto the corpse, Dean gratefully lit a match and tossed it in.   
The all-too familiar unearthly wail of a dying ghost filled the air for a brief second, before the graveyard fell silent.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed, flopping onto his back on the damp grass. Bobby’s face appeared over his own, peering down at him in concern.

“You alright?” He demanded, holding out a hand to tug the younger hunter to his feet. Dean accepted it gratefully. “She didn’t get you, did she?”

The younger hunter shook his head, dusting off his pants as he took in the sight of Sam. The dog was sitting next to his abandoned duffel, mud and dirt streaked through the fur on his face, watching Dean with what looked entertainingly like an expression of pride. 

“Sam gave me the heads up before she could. I think I’d be dead without that mutt – she launched a branch at the back of my head, and I had no idea she was even there until Sam starting barking. Jumped out of the grave and held her off… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Bobby paled slightly. 

“Christ.” He swore, tugging his ever-present trucker cap off to run a hand through his hair. “We never should have split up. Your dad would’ve had my head on a plate if anything had happened to you, especially if it was because I wasn’t watching your back like I was supposed to.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t you dare go blaming yourself, old man. It was my idea to split up in the first place, remember? Besides which, it looks like I had someone watching my back, after all. I’m just glad that you’re not the one that found her first.”

Bobby nodded his head in agreement.

“He alright?” He asked, inclining his head towards the dog, studying him carefully. “She threw him when she saw me.”

“I think so. I’ll look him over properly when we get back to Jim’s, but he was moving fine when we got back out. As far as I can tell, it’s all dirt.”

“Thank goodness for that.” The older hunter breathed. “You wanna take him back? I can shift this dirt in by myself, no problem.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Thought we’d learnt our lesson about splitting up?”


	3. Chapter 3

  
Over the next few days, they fell into a routine of sorts at Jim’s.

Dean would wake up early in the mornings, catching breakfast with Bobby and Jim before collecting Sam and heading out for a three mile run into town. Once there, he’d park himself on one of the small little tables outside of the creatively named  _Blue Earth Diner_  and order himself a cup of coffee, pretending not to notice when the waitresses slipped Sam bits of bacon and sausage as they made a fuss of him.

From there, it was a three mile run back, by which time Jim had normally finished the morning service at the small church and had joined Bobby in the study, ready through dusty leather-bound books on lore. Dean sometimes joined them, but usually begged out of their little nerd sessions, working his way through the list of repairs that Jim needed doing. The two of them would join again for lunch, and then part ways again until dinner.

After they’d finished their dinner, Dean and Bobby would scour the local paper for any hunts, sometimes finding a salt and burn to keep themselves occupied on an evening and sometimes not. It was nice, in a way, waking up and knowing what to expect from the day, but Dean had never been good at staying in one place.

It was no surprise to anyone when, on the fourth Friday that the three of them had spent sitting around and doing nothing, and with still no message from John to say he was close by, Dean announced that he was heading a few towns over to hustle some pool and replenish his slowly dwindling supply of cash. Neither was it a surprise when Bobby said that he’d join him. Hustling was best played as a two-man game, and though Dean knew from past experience that the other hunter would refuse any offer to split the cash with him, Bobby had confessed to him once that he sometimes missed the thrill of the scam. 

Dean couldn’t exactly blame him, and half an hour later he was pulling into a small, run-down bar just three towns over from Pastor Jim’s house. The parking lot was little more than a square of hard-packed dirt, dusty trucks and well-worn cars parked at random intervals. Dean tucked the Impala into a space between a truck and a car, close enough to the door to make for a quick exit.

“You just stay here, alright?” Dean muttered, glancing at the dog perched in the passenger seat. 

Despite his best attempts to leave Sam behind, the animal had managed to worm his way out of the house ahead of Dean so many times that, much to the amusement of Bobby and Jim, the hunter had eventually given in and resigned himself to the animal tagging along. Taking a good, hard look at the local bar through the Impala’s windscreen, Dean didn’t exactly regret that decision – hopefully having a dog like Sam in the car might deter the locals from roughing up his baby.

Ordinarily, Dean wouldn’t have ever even considered trying to hustle pool in a place like this – it was too small a town for an outsider to be welcomed, and certainly not the kind of place where they’d take lightly to someone walking away with their hard earned cash. Today, however, he was in the unusual position of having enough cash that it wouldn’t matter if he lost a few bucks pulling out early if things started to go downhill. 

Whilst he’d be disappointed to walk away without any cash, today was more about the thrill of the challenge. And it would certainly be a challenge.

Grinning to himself, he slid his way out of the Impala – catching Sam by the collar and gently nudging him back inside when the dog tried to follow him out, and paused to triple check that the window was open enough for him before he turned and made his way inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he clocked the exact moment that Bobby’s truck pulled into the lot, circling around the cars. Dean knew that the older man would wait a little while before coming inside, playing it cool so that nobody would suspect that they were together.

The door was propped open, but almost as soon as Dean stepped inside the smoke-fogged room he was aware that all eyes were definitely on him. A few of the younger woman looked interested, leering unabashedly from their seats around the room, and Dean plastered on his usual shit-eating grin without a second of hesitation. He was nothing if not a professional. 

He bought himself a beer and settled in on one of the bar stools to wait it out – ensuring that he had a good view of the pool table as he drained his first beer in one long pull and called for another. He was half-way through his third beer when Bobby strolled in, and Dean turned with everyone else to watch as the old man crossed the room and settled into a stool just three seats away from Dean.

The older man raised his beer, saluting another outsider, and Dean politely tipped his back before turning his attention to making small talk with the bartender.

He’d been drinking since he was a kid; he knew he could hold his liquor, but he was also better than anyone had a right to be at pretending to be falling-down drunk, and it was only an hour or so later that he finally staggered his way towards the pool table. 

He timed his drunken trip to perfection, deliberately catching his foot on the bottom of an innocent bystander’s stool and stumbling forwards just far enough to send him crashing into the pool table. As predicted, his actions were met with laughter, and he made a show of shaking his head like he’d seen other drunks (and Sam) do from time-to-time, before lifting his head.

There was about eight or so of the local men loitering around the pool table, and none of them seemed overly bothered by the fact that Dean had just effectively interrupted their nice conversation, and he even caught a wide-set man leer at his friend before turning and offering him the pool cue.

“You wanting a game, kid?”

“Sure,” Dean slurred, being conscious not to over-do it. Nothing tipped people off to a hustle faster than someone acting drunker than they should have been – Dean had hung out with enough lightweights to know that four beers could have him on the comfortable side of drunk, but still fairly functional. As unlikely as it was that anyone had been counting how many times he’d flagged down the waitress, his father had trained him to be meticulous. “How’s twenty bucks sound?”

The man laughed easily, slapping a few crumpled bills onto the edge of the table and leaning forward to meet Dean’s eyes in what was probably intended as a move of intimidation.

“How about we make it fifty?”

**

Three hours later and Dean was three beers further into his act, and nearly two grand richer. Bobby, for his part, had a played a few honest games – beating Dean twice and pulling in a couple of hundred dollars from the locals, handed to him with friendly grins and a congratulatory clap on the back. It had been a good haul, but Dean could see the suspicion starting to swim in the eyes of a few of his opponents.

He knew better than to push his luck, staging a dramatic trip over the corner of the pool table that resulted in a smashed beer bottle and a small nick on the palm of one hand. It was a little more than he’d been aiming for, but it worked to his advantage, two waitresses rushing towards him. One of them collected the glass from the floor with a practiced efficiency, and the other fussed about the cut in his palm – extracting a small piece of glass from the wound. 

Figuring that his injury was probably enough to throw the locals off his trail, at least until they got their wits together and realized just how much he’d taken them for as a collective, Dean nodded reluctantly when one of the waitresses suggested that it might be time to head home.

“I’ve got him,” Bobby’s voice offered, friendly and easy, and the waitress seemed a little relieved when the older hunter slung one of Dean’s arms across his shoulders, making a show of herding him towards the open door. “About time I headed out anyways.”

They kept up the act as Bobby steered Dean into the car park, waiting until they were nearly past the Impala before checking over his shoulder to see if they were clear. After a long moment, he dropped Dean’s arm from his shoulders and grinned.

“Not bad, kid.” He said approvingly. “Your little act’s gotten even better since the last time I saw you take a play at a bar.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, sticking his hand through the small gap he’d left in the window, running his hand through Sam’s fur. The dog was stood with his front paws on the window, tail wagging behind him as he licked across Dean’s wrist enthusiastically. His hand reached for the Impala’s door handle, was just closing around it when a scream rang out across the car park.

Dean was moving before he’d even stopped to consider it, hand dropping to the knife hidden underneath his jacket as he took off towards the alley at one side of the bar, Bobby hot on his heels. He regretted, briefly, his decision to leave his gun in the car, and then he was swinging around the corner into the dark alley. He was perhaps ten feet in when a big, beefy man stepped out in front of him and Dean realized that he’d just ran straight into a trap.

Behind him, Bobby swore.

“Looking mighty sober for a kid that couldn’t even walk a few moments ago,” The man commented disinterestedly, leaning against a large metal dumpster. Behind him, one of the waitresses was standing with her head ducked, looking vaguely ashamed of herself, flanked by three more guys. A brief glance over his shoulder revealed exactly what Dean had expected to see: five more guys, penning him and Bobby in.

“Adrenaline.” Dean shrugged, resisting the urge to reach for his knife. For now, pulling it out wasn’t going to do much more than escalate the situation – he highly doubted that he and Bobby were the only two men in the alleyway who were armed.

“Seems likely.” The man scowled. “What do you take us for? Morons? You think we can’t see when we’re being hustled? You’ve got some learning to do, son.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “And I bet you’re about to teach me, hey?”

“Looks that way.” He grinned, and then all hell broke loose. 

The men weren’t coordinated at all, the nine of them surging forwards at once, and Dean could almost feel the exact moment that his hunting instincts kicked in. He was moving before he recognized he was doing it; blocking blows even as he sent out a few of his own, feeling his foot connect with a kneecap with a satisfying crunch. Someone yelled in pain, hit the floor, and Dean caught sight of Bobby.

The hunter was holding his own, facing off against three men of his own whilst Dean handled the others. Someone swung towards the younger man’s face, and he ducked, using the man’s momentum to swing him face-first against the brick wall of the alley. He crumpled to the floor and didn’t move, and someone made an enraged yell.

It was then that the first knife was pulled, and it seemed like after that, everyone had one in hand. Dean produced his own, a wicked-looking steel number that gleamed in the faint light of the solitary streetlight in the car park. Someone swung for his neck, twisted and tried again for his stomach when he blocked it, and a whoosh of air alerted him to another blow coming from the side of him in just enough time for him to block it.

He knocked the knife clear from the man’s hand, breaking his wrist in the progress, and it was only when the man grinned a little that he realized his mistake. He’d spun to get the knife, leaving his back open and vulnerable, and the crunch of gravel was close – too close – and he knew that there was no way that he could turn quickly enough to stop the incoming hit.

He spun anyway. A loud growl rang through the darkness, and Dean’s eyes locked on his opponent in the same instant that Sam’s teeth locked around his attacker’s wrist and the knife – barely an inch from his heart – clattered to the floor. The man yowled, kicking desperately at Sam, but the animal held on with determination clear in the tight clench of his jaw.

Grinning now, Dean spun the hilt of his knife towards the man on his left, clocking him straight in the temple and sending him to the floor.  
Someone collided with his side, sending him staggering for a few steps before his knife found purchase in the man’s shoulder with a sick squelching noise. A punch to the temple, and Dean’s path was cleared for just long enough for him to see the man next to a dumpster, arm raised over the spot where Dean knew that Sam was. 

Terror struck him so hard that the world swam and he lunged forwards, desperate, even as the knife descended and he heard the unmistakable yelp of pain. The man cried out, yanking his hand back with blood dripping from his fingers. It was empty, and the unmistakable sound of metal clattering against concrete had never come.

Two men left now, one with his knife still sticking out of Sam’s skin, and Dean didn’t think. The knife flew from his hand with complete precision, hitting the man in the stomach. He didn’t care that it was more than likely a killing shot, didn’t even think twice before yanking his knife free as he stepped over him.

“Sam.” The hunter breathed, taking in the sight before him. 

There was blood everywhere, splattered up the walls and pooling on the ground, dark and glinting. The man that Sam had attacked was lying prone, wrist and arm savaged enough that he’d likely passed out from the pain; the wounds didn’t look lethal, but some part of Dean wished that they were.

In the corner between the wall and the dumpster, Sam was slumped over onto his side, ribs heaving unsteadily and eyes wide with fear. The hilt of the knife was protruding from his side, and Dean couldn’t see how deep it was, didn’t know how long the blade was, and he felt bile rise in his throat as he dropped to his knees.

“It’s okay,” He promised, feeling tears well up in his eyes as he leant over, soothing a hand over the animal’s fur. The other reached for the knife, trembling, and he hesitated for a long moment. Taking the knife out could cause all sorts of damage; for all Dean knew, it was the only thing preventing the animal from haemorrhaging to death. The flip side to that, however, was that he couldn’t expect a dog to lie perfectly still until help arrived, and the slightest of movements could have his spine severed or a previously-untouched organ ruptured.

Already Sam’s front paw was starting to move, the animal’s head twisting towards the knife, and Dean knew that he had no choice. Praying that the blade was straight and not serrated, he gripped the handle tightly and pulled it free, tossing it aside. Sam let out another heart-wrenching yowl of pain, blood surging up to fill the wound even as his back arched and he bucked.

For a long moment, Dean thought that the dog was starting to seize, and then he found himself falling backwards onto his ass, scrabbling backwards as his brain made sense of what was happening. The animal’s limbs were lengthening, fur receding to reveal human skin; his muzzle and tail were gradually retreating into his body, the hair on his head lengthening.

Seconds after the knife was removed, Dean found himself confronted with the unconscious form of a teenager, naked save for a tattered pair of sweatpants that were stained with mud and blood and a red leather collar around his neck. Blood was spilling across his flat stomach and toned chest, and his eyes were closed, his lashes casting shadows across his pronounced cheekbones.

“Dean?”

The hunter jerked, wide eyes flying up to take in the sight of Bobby as he rounded the corner, panic clear on his face and blood smeared across one cheek from his temple. He was panting audibly, eyes taking in the frightened gaze of his younger companion before skipping over to the unconscious boy with the stab wound.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bobby breathed. “Did you…? And where the hell is Sam? I could have sworn I saw him dart past me.”

His eyes dropped to Dean’s hands, and it was until he registered that the man was searching for a knife that Dean made sense of what Bobby was accusing him of.

“No, it was one of the others.” He shook his head, pulling himself to his feet, and hesitated for a long moment before steeling himself. “Watch him for a moment. I need to get my gun.”

Bobby blinked his eyes dumbly, catching Dean’s arm when he tried to walk past him.

“Now you wait there a goddamn minute.” He snarled. “What the hell is going on?”

Dean sucked in a breath, and turned his head to meet the hunter’s eyes. “He’s a shifter.”

“Who is? The boy?” Bobby demanded.

Dean nodded.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because,” Dean replied darkly, glaring at the fallen teenager, taking in the uneven rise and fall of his chest. “Twenty seconds ago, he was Sam.”

Bobby sucked in a startled breath, and Dean took that as his opportunity to jerk his arm free and jog to the Impala’s trunk. His hands were shaking by his sides, mind working a mile a minute, body moving on autopilot. In his head, he could hear his father’s voice.

_“Shapeshifters are one of the most dangerous kind of creatures, Dean,”_  The voice whispered to him, a long-distant memory of his father pointing to a page in his journal, blood underneath his fingernails and eyes hard. _“Do you know why? Because they could be anyone… could be anything. The old woman in the room next to us – the one that gave you candy yesterday? She could be a shapeshifter. So could her cat. You have to be on your guard constantly, son. They’re always the people that you least expect them to be, and they’re smart as hell. They’ll play you, and then when they’re sick of their little games – when they have all of the information they need – they’ll kill you. And then they’ll move on to somebody else._ ”

Dean jerked the Impala’s trunk open roughly, and when he snapped the catch on the false bottom and yanked it open, something tumbled out. Dean caught it instinctively, glancing around to see if anyone had seen, before he recognized the stuffed animal was one he’d tossed in the shopping cart for Sam, all those weeks ago.

For a brief moment, his resolve shook. How could he kill something that he’d come to care so much about? How could he shoot him straight in the head, whilst he was bleeding from a wound to the gut that he’d gotten from defending Dean?

In the end, it was his father’s last words that had him grabbing his handgun and loading the silver rounds with shaking hands. He was a hunter. He couldn’t risk the chance that Sam would move on to someone else, that – after he was finished with Dean – he could take an innocent life.

He slammed the trunk shut with a final sounding slam, and jogged back to the alley. He was a little surprised that none of the men who’d ambushed them seemed to have roused in the time he’d been gone, and made a mental note that he should probably call an ambulance when they were safely out of danger. 

Bobby was crouched down when Dean finally rounded the dumpster, and his eyes widened when he took in the sight of the gun in Dean’s hand. He stood slowly, as if worried the young man might decide to shoot him instead, and the hunter couldn’t help but scowl when he noticed that the older man had positioned himself directly between Sam and the gun.

“What are you doing?” He snarled, motioning with the barrel of the gun. “Move out of the way.”

Bobby shook his head, planting his feet more firmly on the floor. “Think about what you’re doing, Dean. This came as a big shock, son – you’re not thinking clearly right now.”

“I’m thinking just fine. He’s not human. He needs to be killed.” Dean announced, eyes locked on those of his friend. Bobby shook his head.

“Listen to me, Dean.” He said firmly. “I’m going to move out of your way in just a second, but first I want you to think about this carefully. Just because something’s not human, doesn’t mean it’s evil – I know that your daddy trained you to see these things as black and white, but that’s not the way the world works. Yes, Sam’s a shapeshifter, but for the past few weeks he’s also been your best friend. He’s had more than enough opportunities to kill you – hell, he’s been sleeping in the same bed as you every night since we found him.”

Dean lowered the gun a little, watching as Bobby stepped a little to the side, and for a moment he almost lowered it to his side.

“He’s evil.” He said, pleading with the older man to understand as he raised the gun once more, thumb knocking the safety catch off as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Bobby’s face fell, but he stepped all the way to the side like he’d said he would, giving Dean a clear shot to the shifter’s head.

“Is he?” Bobby asked, and Dean hesitated once more, tears welling in his eyes with frustration. His father had taught him that anything supernatural needed to be killed – he’d lived his whole life with a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ policy, and lowering his gun now would mean accepting the idea that – somewhere along the way – he might have killed someone innocent. 

On the floor, Sam stirred, hazel eyes blinking slowly open. For a few moments, they wandered without aim, unfocused, and then they locked on Dean’s face. Slowly, so slowly that Dean could follow their path, they fell down from his face to his chest, along the line of his outstretched arm and finally locked on the gun.

Dean waited with baited breath for the creature to attack, to launch itself at him, to try and defend itself. Sam didn’t so much as seem surprised. He sighed, softly, and Dean watched those beautiful hazel eyes – eyes that Dean would recognize anywhere, regardless of whether they were staring at him from a dog’s face or a human’s – fill with tears, before Sam shut them.

It took Dean a few seconds to realize that Sam was waiting for him to pull the trigger.

In the end, it was that dim acceptance of death that sent Dean’s gun clattering to the floor, and he found himself sinking back down to the ground, trembling with the knowledge of what he’d almost done. Sam flinched at the noise, screwing his eyes up tighter and this close, Dean could tell that he was shaking. His skin was pebbled with the cold, blood still seeping from his wound, and his brow glistened with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathed, leaning forward and slipping a hand in the young man’s hair, stroking along his cheekbone. “Jesus, Sam. I’m sorry. We’re gonna get you fixed up, okay? You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a scratch.”

When Sam’s eyes blinked open again, they were wide and scared, the same look that had been afforded to Pastor Jim the first time that Sam had set foot in his house.

When he spoke, his voice was rusty with disuse and cracked with pain.

“Too late,” He croaked, and his eyes flickered up past Dean’s shoulder. The hunter glanced behind him, took in the knife lying where he’d tossed it, blade darkened with blood. “Silver knife.”

The implications that those words held had Dean’s breath catching in his chest, and he felt tears sting his eyes again. Silver was poisonous to shifters, killed them bit by bit, left them writhing in agony before it stole the last breath from their body. It was a horrible way to die, the worst Dean could think of, and it was a death that Sam had willingly condemned himself in order to save Dean. He’d sacrificed himself, and Dean had nearly shot him for his troubles.

He wondered if that might have been kinder.

“Dean,” Bobby said softly, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. The young man glanced up at his friend, seeing his own tears reflected in the older hunter’s eyes. “There might be a way. There’s a shaman not far from here... he might be able to help. I need you to get Sam home, okay? Get him back to Jim’s and flush out the wound with holy water. I’ll call him from the road and see what he says.”

Dean nodded his head.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Yeah, okay. Come on, Sammy. Up we go.”

He slipped his hand carefully underneath the boy’s back, easing him up to his feet as quickly and efficiently as he could, knowing from experience how much a stomach wound hurt when you had to move. By the time they hit vertical, what little color had remained in Sam’s face had vanished completely, leaving him almost ghostly white. He looked seconds away from passing out and when Dean tried to move them forwards a step, his knees threatened to give out from underneath him. 

Bobby rushed forwards to support his other side as his eyes slipped closed, and Dean looked to the end of the alley, where he could see the faint gleam of the Impala’s glossy frame.

“He’s never gonna make it to the car like this,” he announced, shifting the boy’s weight more firmly onto the other hunter. Sam’s eyes fluttered open for a long moment, proof that he was trying valiantly to cling to consciousness, before they shut again. “You got him for a moment?”

He waited for the other hunter’s nod before releasing his grip completely, shifting so that one of his arms was underneath the shifter’s knees and the other was behind his back, and then carefully lifted. 

Sam folded into his arms like it was what he’d been built to do, head coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean thanked his lucky stars that the kid was a hell of a lot lighter than he’d expected. Shifting the kid’s weight slightly, he carefully made his way to the Impala, giving a few of the men a swift kick as he stepped over them.

Bobby slid the keys out of his pocket and rushed forwards, opening the Impala’s back door for them and rifling through the trunk until he found an old but clean-smelling towel and some bandages. He slipped a hand underneath Sam’s head as Dean lowered him into the car, supporting it until he was lying flat, and frowned when he felt the faint thrum of the boy’s pulse against his fingertips.

Between the two of them, they made short work of binding the towel to Sam’s side in an effort to staunch the bleeding, and Dean carefully tucked the kid’s legs a little more securely into the car before swinging the door shut. Sam didn’t stir.

“He’ll be okay.” Bobby swore, eyes lingering on the kid’s face for a long moment before he met Dean’s gaze. “We’ll get him fixed up, okay?”

Dean nodded, hand clasped tightly around the Impala’s door handle. “Drive fast, Bobby.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dean reached Jim’s house in record time, screeching into the driveway and leaping out of the car almost before the engine had stopped. 

If possible, Sam looked even worse than he had before. The towel strapped to his side was stained with blood, staining the white fabric a dark crimson colour and Dean wasted no time at all carefully manoeuvring the kid out of the car and into his arms. He was halfway up the stairs when the front door swung open, revealing Pastor Jim stood in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare and eyes still clouded slightly with sleep.

“Dean?” He asked, taking in the boy in the hunter’s arms. “What on earth is going on?”

He stepped aside to let the young man pass him, following a few steps behind as Dean wove his way through the house. He hesitated at the sofa, before abruptly changing his mind and continuing along to his own bedroom, kicking the door open roughly – a complete contrast to the gentle manner in which he lay Sam on the bed.

The kid moaned a little at the movement, eyes blinking open once more and searching for Dean. The Pastor flipped the switch for the light, and Sam winced his eyes shut for a long moment, before locking them once more on the hunter. Despite everything, the shifter smiled.

“Hey, there, Sammy.” Dean smiled, running a hand over the boy’s cheek. “You’re doing so good, kid. Just keep hanging in there, okay? You and me have a lot to talk about.”

Behind him, Jim shook a started breath. “Dean, that’s... That’s Sam?”

“Yeah, it is. Look, can you grab me some holy water and some more towels? Bobby says that we have to flush this wound.” He ordered, glancing briefly at his shoulder. Jim hesitated for a long moment, eyes trained on Sam’s face, before nodding his hand and disappearing into the hallway.

Sam’s fingers reached out, tangled themselves in Dean’s shirt, and the hunter offered him a reassuring smile as he reached out and began unwinding the bandage from around the young man’s middle. The towel fell away, and Dean fought to bite back a gasp at the sight; the edges of the wound were beginning to turn black, the colour creeping its way through the kid’s veins to create a pattern that vaguely resembled a child’s drawing of the sun. 

Jim chose that moment to reappear with the requested supplies, along with a large bottle of whisky and Dean’s own medical kit. 

“Just in case,” He commented, setting the kit on the floor and handing the towels to Dean. The hunter carefully wiped away the blood from Sam’s stomach, before he and Jim managed to work the others underneath the young man’s body.

Dean tipped his head up, gently nudging Sam’s chin until the shifter met his eyes. “This bit’s going to hurt a lot, but it’ll make you feel a bit better, okay? You need to scream, you scream.”

Sam tipped his head in a feeble imitation of a nod, and Jim tipped the holy water onto the wound with no other warning. It sizzled and hissed as soon as it hit flesh, and Sam’s whole body bucked at the sensation. Dean reached out to brace him, rubbing a hand soothingly over the young man’s chest, and Jim’s hands shook even as he carried on pouring.

It was a long and agonizing four minutes later that the water finally stopped fizzing, and Sam relaxed back into the mattress with a whimper. Jim sighed in relief, tossing the empty flask on the floor, and grabbed a spare towel to carefully mop up the pink liquid that had spilled over the boy’s stomach; Dean couldn’t tell whether the black lines surrounding the wound were shorter, or whether it was just wishful thinking.  
If nothing else, Sam seemed a little more conscious. 

“’S it working?” He muttered, fingers periodically clenching and relaxing in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. The hunter offered him a smile, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Yeah, it’s working. You’ll be good as new in no time.” He reassured. “And then we’ll have a nice, long chat about how uncool it is to pretend to be a dog.”

Sam’s eyes dropped in what Dean presumed to be shame, and he felt a thick stab of guilt in his gut. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sam was already talking.

“I was scared,” He admitted. “Thought you’d kill me if you knew what I really was.”

He didn’t mention the fact that Dean had nearly done exactly that, had trained a gun on his head and had nearly pulled the trigger, and Dean was grateful for that if nothing else. On the other side of the bed, Jim was watching the two of them with a soft smile, and Dean was loathe to admit how close he’d come to making such a colossal mistake.

“So why stick around?” Dean asked softly. “You had every reason to take off… why didn’t you?”

Sam shrugged one shoulder, wincing a little at the pull on his muscles. “I… you saved me, and then you seemed to like having me around. It didn’t feel right to just run away from you.”

“And what? You were just going to pretend to be a dog forever? Never shift back?”

Sam shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess so. Until you figured out that I wasn’t a normal dog, I guess. And then…”

He trailed off, and Dean didn’t need to hear him finish to recall the acceptance in the young man’s eyes when he’d thought that the hunter was going to kill him. Sam would have followed him around for years, if not for the night’s events, until Dean had figured out that he wasn’t normal. He knew himself well enough to know that, if Bobby hadn’t been there to stop him, he would more than likely have put a bullet in the kid’s brain as soon as he’d figured it out, and Sam would have let him.

“That’s not going to happen.” Dean promised, voice firm. He met Sam’s eyes and met them there. “I swear on everything that’s holy, I’m never going to hurt you, Sam.”

The shifter smiled tiredly, eyes starting to droop shut.

“I know.”

  
**

Predictably, Jim had demanded an explanation as soon as Sam had drifted into sleep, and Dean had relayed the night’s events in a shaky voice. Jim listened to him describe everything, including the gun that he’d nearly fired, without so much as a flicker, and when the younger man was finished he smile.

“I’m proud of you, Dean.” He said softly, eyes flitting over to the bed where Sam was still sleeping. Dean had tucked the blankets around him to ward off the chill of the night air, and his fingers had hesitated over the buckle of the red leather collar before he’d left it there, muttering excuses about how he hadn’t wanted to disturb him. He’d curled slightly onto his side, and nuzzled his face closer to the pillow, and he looked peaceful as he dreamt. “You had a tough choice out there, and you made the right decision.”

Dean lowered his eyes. “I nearly didn’t. I was so close to pulling the trigger, Jim, and he was just going to let me. Wasn’t going to try and defend himself at all.”

“You can’t blame yourself for choices you almost made, Dean,” The pastor smiled. “You just have to accept the decision that you  _did_  make, and move on from there. You’ve got a lot of things to work out, son.”

Dean snorted in laughter. “No kidding. How ironic is my life now? A hunter who’s best friend is a shapeshifter. Jesus, it’s like a crappy TV show.”

“And you’re not going to send him away?”

“What?” Dean’s head jerked up so fast that he briefly considered the possibility that he’d given himself whiplash. “Why would I do that? …If you don’t want him here, we’ll go somewhere else.”

Jim smiled, shaking his head in amusement. “You misunderstand. I have no issue with Sam being here – he will _always_  be welcome here, as will you, but you’re a hunter. It’s in your very blood, Dean. It’s what you were born to do, and that life will be dangerous for Sam.”

Dean blinked, but Jim was already continuing.

“Have you considered what might happen if someone finds out that Sam’s isn’t human? Not all hunters are accepting as we are – some would see him as a threat. Some would want to hunt him, and they would want to kill him.”

“Some hunters like my dad, you mean?” Dean asked quietly, dropping his head into his hands. He heard the faint rustle of movement, lifted his head to watch as Sam stirred, moaning quietly in his sleep. He’d been doing it on and off for the past half hour, more frequently as the time passed, and Dean knew that it was a sign that the silver poisoning was only progressing.

His heart panged painfully in his chest and, for the first time, he acknowledged inwardly just how devastated he’d feel if Bobby’s Shaman fell through. 

It’s ridiculous, in a way, that Dean felt as attached to the boy before him as he did. In some ways, it was a bond that had been forming since Dean first looked inside that metal cage and saw those hazel eyes blinking back at him. Over a month had passed since then, and even as a dog Sam had wormed his way firmly into Dean’s life. 

Though he knew things would be different now, might even be somewhat strained and awkward at first, the logical part of his brain recognized that all of those traits that he’d come to love in Sam the dog – courage, determination and an unwavering loyalty – were the ones he was already beginning to love in Sam the person.

Human or dog, Dean couldn’t deny the connection he felt with the shifter. To lose him now would be heart-breaking, but Dean didn’t know if there was any way to keep both Sam and his father in his life, and his stomach flipped sickeningly at the thought.

He turned to the Pastor, eyes wide and pleading for an answer, looking honest and open and reminding Jim of the six-year-old boy that John had ushered up the porch steps ahead of him the first time they’d met. Fifteen years later, and that look still makes his heart feel like it’s breaking in his chest.

“What do I do?” The young man demanded. 

The Pastor smiled sadly. “I wish I knew, son.”

**

By the time that Dean’s phone finally rang, an hour had passed and the silver sickness had Sam firmly in its grasp. Though his face was still pale, two patches of crimson stood out on his face from the fever; the last reading had come back as 104.3 and Dean knew just how serious that was. The black lines had begun spreading once more, despite a second attempt to flush the wound out with holy water, and Dean had taken to pacing the room like a caged animal, eyes locked on the younger man’s form.

Sam, for his part, was tossing and turning as much as his stomach wound would allow – though his eyes remained shut, he mumbled and whimpered in his sleep, and he’d roused easily enough when Dean had shaken him awake and coaxed some water into him.

Dean didn’t give the older hunter a chance for pleasantries, simply flipped the phone open and began talking, voice firm and demanding despite the trembling of his hands. “Bobby? What have you got?”

“Grainger gave me some ingredients for a remedy of sorts, but there’s a few things I need Jim to grab for me – he there?”

Dean motioned for the Pastor to come closer, grabbing a notepad and pen from the bedside table. “Okay, Bobby. Shoot.”

“Okay, I’m going to need some rosemary, thistle, and some sage. He should have all of that, right?” Jim nodded, and Dean quickly relayed the affirmative. “Great. Tell him that he needs to blend them together in his food processor, and have some kind of bowl or something waiting for me when I get there.”

Jim looked relieved to have some kind of job to do, taking the list as soon as Dean handed it to him, and Dean watched him scurry off into the hallway with a small smile of relief on his lips.

“How far out are you?” He asked carefully, almost afraid of the answer. 

“About twenty minutes – spent the majority of the past hour and a half trying to track down the rest of the damn ingredients,” Bobby admitted. “How’s Sam holding up?”

Dean sighed, sinking onto the bed next to the shifter. He ran a hand across the younger man’s cheekbone, a gesture that was becoming all too familiar, and wiped his hair back from his face.

“Not great. Spiking a fever that’s just shy of 104.5, and even when he’s awake he’s barely lucid… not to mention that the poison’s spreading twice as quick as it was before.”

Bobby sucked in a sharp breath. “Anywhere near his heart? Or his lungs?”

“Not yet.” Dean ran his finger along one of the lines, feeling the heat radiating from the kid’s skin. He followed the same line past the point where it ended, until his finger was hovering over his heart, and his heart dropped a little. “But it’s not far off. Maybe another half an hour if we’re lucky, I’d say.”

In response, the truck’s engine roared over the phone, and Dean could almost see the grim determination settling into Bobby’s face, floor pressed down to the floor. “I’ll be there in ten.”

The line went dead, and Dean tossed the phone onto the pile of clean towels that Jim had dumped onto the floor, trailing his fingers down from Sam’s temple, following the contours of his face to the vulnerable skin of his throat. Underneath the loose red leather, he could just make out the faint smudges of a fading bruise, and it took him only a split-second to realize that it was a mark left behind from his days with the demon – from the thick metal collar that had been clasped so tightly around his neck.

Underneath Dean’s fingertips, the young man’s pulse pumped, thready and weak. 

“Not long now,” He promised in a whisper, bending down to press a soft kiss to the younger man’s forehead. He pulled back, eyes locked on the shifter’s form, soft and fond. The two of them stayed like that, for a long moment, and from the doorway to the small bedroom, Pastor Jim watched on with a small smile on his face.

He knew that he should announce his presence, reassure Dean with the knowledge that everything Bobby had requested was set up and waiting for him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment. If Sam didn’t make it through the night, then the least he deserved was this moment of silent tenderness.

Barely two minutes later, the shifter’s back arched to an unnatural angle and he began to seize.

**

Bobby’s heart was pounding in his chest, hands white-knuckled on his truck’s steering wheel. He couldn’t remember ever before feeling such a desperation to get somewhere; of trying to drive to such an urgent deadline. His brain was torturing him with the last glimpse he’d gotten of Sam’s wound before he’d bandaged it, black threads of poison already beginning to work their way outwards; the look in Dean’s eyes as he’d carefully folded the kid’s legs into the Impala. 

Weeks ago, he’d teased Dean about becoming attached to a dog he’d known for a number of hours. Now, he was driving with his heart in his throat, desperate to save the life of a boy he’d barely caught a glimpse of. 

He urged his truck faster, dodging past cars that were going too slowly, until he could see the familiar turn off for Jim’s house. He slammed the car around the corner so hard that he nearly fishtailed it, not letting off the gas until he was screeching to a stop in front of the back door, the front tires bouncing of the bottom of the porch steps.

He grabbed the paper grocery bag from the truck as he bolted, nearly tipping it in his haste to get inside, and left the door swinging in the wind as he bolted for the kitchen. The door opened as he got there, Pastor Jim stood pale-faced and red eyed and for a second Bobby thought he might throw up.

“Is he…”

Jim shook his head. “Not yet.”

The words themselves spoke volumes, and Bobby began scrabbling for the contents of the bag, tipping things into the blender haphazardly, barely waiting until they were purified before adding them to the ingredients that Jim had prepared and furiously stirring them into a concoction that looked eerily similar to pond water.

He was more careful as he tipped the mixture into a glass, ensuring not to spill any, and he kept one hand firmly over the top of it as he took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for Dean’s bedroom unprompted.

“Sit him up,” He demanded as he shoved his way inside, ignoring the slam of the door as he sent it slamming into the wall with a loud crash.   
Dean jumped, startled eyes flying up to take in the sight of him before he carefully urged the kid into a sitting position. The shifter’s eyes barely opened, and the small slits that were visible were unfocused. Bobby slid a deceptively gentle hand into his hair, urging his head forwards a little, and tipped the contents of the glass into the boy’s mouth.

The kid gagged weakly, before instinct kicked in and he swallowed it down, choking a little when Bobby didn’t let up until the whole mixture was gone. Carefully the hunter removed the glass, lowering the kid’s head onto Dean’s shoulder when he coughed weakly, murky eyes managing just barely to lock onto his face. 

His eyes trailed down to the faint black lines, mere inches from the boy’s heart, and he wondered with a sick sensation in his stomach if he hadn’t been too late.

Dean was studying his face, still cradling the boy’s lithe frame against his chest, and his green eyes looked hopeful. “Did it work?”

“It’s impossible to tell yet,” Bobby admitted. “We’ll have to watch him closely over the next few hours, see what happens.”

“And for now?”

Bobby smiled sadly. “For now we wait. Let him rest, and hope that the antidote does the trick.”

It was another ten minutes later that Dean finally lowered Sam back to the mattress, tucking him carefully back under the blankets. He’d been under the assumption that the kid had fallen back under, but an unsteady hand reached out to grasp the sleeve of his t-shirt when he tried to pull away, grip already so familiar. 

Dean smiled softly as Sam blinked up at him fuzzily, eyes appearing almost eerily blue as he silently pleaded for Dean to stay close. Dean glanced up at Bobby and Jim, both settled into hard-backed chairs that had been dragged up from the kitchen at some point or another, but both of the men avoided his gaze. Cheeks flushing a little in embarrassment, Dean slowly kicked off his boots and crawled under the covers.

Sam shifted slightly, and it took the hunter a long moment to realize that he was making room for Dean’s arm to slip under his head.

Hesitantly, Dean pulled the younger man into his arms, and as the shifter settled against him he was surprised to realize that it didn’t feel all that different from all of those nights that he’d spent curled up with Sam when he was a dog.

Across the room, Bobby discreetly wiped a tear from one eye.

**

Dean wasn’t sure when it was that he’d drifted off to sleep. 

The last thing he remembered was holding Sam carefully, shifting his arm just a little to give him a better view of the younger man’s chest, tracing those faint black lines over and over again with his eyes. They’d been determinedly staying in the same place for hours, not creeping any closer to Sam’s heart, but not receding either, and Dean and Bobby had taken to checking his temperature every hour.

The thermometer had showed a slow improvement, dropping a couple of numbers lower with every time that they read it, but Dean had refused to get his hopes up until the black lines began to fade and he could literally see the threat start to ebb away. He’d fallen asleep before that happened; lulled into dreamland by the warmth of Sam’s body next to his and the thrum of his pulse against the hunter’s fingertips.

Panicked, Dean jerked up slightly, fighting with the edge of the blanket. It had ridden up at some point whilst he’d slept, covering Sam’s chest entirely, and he had to force himself to calm down until he was rational enough to realize that he was lying on it and preventing it from moving. Shifting his body weight and tugging it free, Dean’s eyes fell on Sam’s chest, and he sucked in a startled breath.

The wound was smaller than he remembered, the skin there tinged a dark shade of grey rather than the black it had been before, and the black lines that had been so close to Sam’s heart before had gradually made their way back towards the source of the poison, now only spreading out roughly four inches.

A glance at the kid’s face revealed that he was still eerily pale, but the hectic red across his cheeks had died down to a healthier tint. His forehead was no longer creased with pain, but smoothed out into a peaceful sleep.

“Kicked in a couple of hours ago,” A soft voice announced, and Dean jerked his head up. Bobby was still seated in the rickety wooden chair that Dean had last seen him in, looking haggard and warn, and the digital clock next to the bed was proudly announcing that it was after midday. “You dozed off around six, and the poison started moving away from his heart at around eight.”

Sam shifted on the bed next to him, drawing Dean’s attention to the way that they had been lying; legs still tangled together and Sam’s head resting on Dean’s arm. He blushed scarlet, ducking his head, and Bobby shifted his cap uncomfortably.

“He, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “He called your name a few times. Never really woke all the way up, but…”

Despite his awkwardness at the situation, Dean couldn’t hide his grin. “He did?”

“No,” Bobby groused with an eye roll. “I’m lying. What do you think?”

Dean’s grin grew. “What’s wrong, old man? You jealous that he wasn’t calling for you?”

“For god’s sakes, boy, I’m getting far too old for all of this. No, I wasn’t jealous – trust me when I say that boy is all yours.”

Dean found himself blushing again the suggestive tone that the older man’s voice took, and Bobby swore under his breath as he came to the same conclusion.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep and save us some of this awkwardness, hey?” The older hunter demanded after a long pause, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna go and find me some coffee.”

He stalked into the hallway, grumbling under his breath as he did so. For a long moment, Dean considered saving  _himself_  some awkwardness and following his friend downstairs, pretending that this had never happened. The bed was warm, though, and Dean could feel the fatigue dogging his bones even after six hours sleep.

Slowly, he lowered himself back down into the bed and if he dropped a kiss on Sam’s temple before he let himself drift off again, well, nobody had to know but him.


	5. Chapter 5

The second time Dean awoke, it was to the smell of bacon and a warm body pressed against his. Hair tickled across his nostrils and he wrinkled his nose, blinking his eyes open in confusion. It was a few moments before he recalled the events of the night before, and he glanced down to find that Sam had wriggled impossibly closer, nose tucked into Dean’s neck.

The hunter would be lying if he said that it was unpleasant, and his arm tightened instinctively across the shifter’s back.

The angle that they were lying at gave him the perfect view of Sam’s chest, and his flat stomach. His eyes fell to the stab wound, and he resisted the urge to fist pump in pure excitement when he discovered that not only had the black traces of poison disappeared completely, but the wound itself was beginning to heal.

Sam would undoubtedly going to be in pain for at least a few more days, if the healing rate he’d observed in other shifter’s in the past was any indication, but he was out of immediate danger and that was good enough for Dean.

As if feeling Dean’s gaze, Sam’s nose wrinkled a little and he stirred, eyelashes fluttering before blinking open. He shifted slightly, and Dean noted the exact moment that he realized how they were lying by the dark blush that spread across his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he muttered in embarrassment, pulling away a little. Dean resisted the urge to tuck him back in, and let him create some space between them.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, searching the young man’s eyes.

“Sore.” Sam admitted. “But not like I’m dying not anymore, so that’s a bonus.”

He cracked a smile, and Dean found himself following suit. It was the first time that he’d seen Sam smile, and the dimples that appeared on either side of his mouth caught him by surprise.

“Definitely a bonus,” He agreed. “And thank you, by the way. If you hadn’t jumped into the fight, then that guy would most likely have severed my spine... or stuck his knife straight into my heart. You saved my life.”

Sam turned his head into the pillow a little, blush intensifying.

“I was just returning the favour,” He replied quietly. “You saved me first… I thought I was gonna die in that cage, just like the others. I’d given up on getting out, and when you first walked in, the best I hoped for was that you might put a bullet in my head before you torched the place.”

Dean couldn’t help the pity that clogged his throat. He could remember all too clearly the smell of rotting meat that had permeated the air, the stomach-flipping sight of dead bodies everywhere you looked. He couldn’t imagine spending any length of time there. “You… how long were you there?”

“Two years.” The shifter admitted after a pregnant pause. “Best as I can figure, at least. It was hard to keep track of the days… It’s around about the end of September now, right?”

Dean nodded. “Just about. Third of October today.”

“Then two years and four days.” Sam corrected, reaching up and running his fingers over the bruise on his neck. “Feels like longer, though.”

“I can imagine.” He hesitated for a long moment, knowing that he should leave it there for now, but his curiosity was insatiable. “How did you end up there?”

Sam’s face shuttered, and for a moment Dean thought that he’d pushed too hard and that the shifter would clam up completely, and then he took a steady breath and forced himself to meet Dean’s eyes.

“I grew up in this little town in California, just outside of Palo Alto, with my mum and my dad. Both of them were like me… shifters, but they raised me to pretend that I was a normal human. Wanted me to blend in. Stay safe. We had a pack there, a couple of other shifter families that we looked out for, and it was nice, y’know? Peaceful.”

Dean nodded.

“When I was fourteen, a hunter broke into our house. We were sitting eating dinner, just laughing and joking around, and then there’s this huge crash and suddenly there’s this stranger there… He accused my dad of being a killer, of murdering all of these people – he was working when some of them were killed, so it couldn’t have been him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

He sucked in a staggered breath, and just when Dean thought he might break down, he visibly composed himself and continued.

“He shot my dad right in front of me and my mom, and then he turned and tried to shoot my mom. He was aiming for her heart, but she ducked or he missed or something – I can’t really remember – and she threw a lamp at him.” He paused, eyes glistening with unshed tears.  
“We… we had to leave my dad there. Just took off running. Mom said we couldn’t go home after that, that the hunters would be looking for us, so she bought a car with her savings and we just… never stopped.”

Dean could almost picture him, fourteen years old and scared for his life, sitting in the passenger seat of a crappy car whilst he and his mom ran away from everything they’d ever known. It was a familiar story; reminded him of being four-years-old, of his father packing him in the car and promising him that they’d never go back to Lawrence.

“About a year and a half later, we stopped in this little town. It was so quiet, and we couldn’t find a motel anywhere, so we pulled into this diner. We couldn’t see anyone from the car, so my mom told me to wait there while she went inside… later on, the demon said he was waiting for her there, that he’d killed everyone while he was waiting. I kind of think it was just coincidence that she walked in when she did.

“He pointed a gun at her head, and I freaked out. All I could think of was watching my dad die, and I was running for the door before I even realized it was a trap. There was three more inside, and they were so strong… We never stood a chance. He chained us in silver, kept us in cages, did all kinds of… experiments. He was crazy.”

He shuddered, and Dean knew when enough was enough, but he couldn’t help one last question slipping free.

“Your mom…” He inquired carefully. “Was she there? When we found you?”

Sam shook his head, the first of his tears slipping free. “No. He killed her after a couple of months, said he was sick of her trying to defend me. He just… tore her head straight off her body. Left it outside of my cage for me to look at.”

Dean thought he might throw up, and when Sam shuddered with repressed emotions, he didn’t hesitate before pulling him in close.

“Jesus,” He breathed, stroking a hand through the younger man’s hair. “Jesus, Sam. I’m so sorry, kid.”

**

By the time that the two of them dragged themselves from Dean’s bed, it was nearly five in the afternoon. Both of them had red-rimmed eyes, and Sam was still less than steady on his feet, weaving slightly as he made his way down the hallway. Dean watched him carefully, hand stretched out in case he fell, but the kid made it to the kitchen without face planting.

Bobby and Jim were sat around the kitchen table, cups of coffee in their hands, and they offered the boys two weary-looking smiles as Dean helped Sam lower himself into a seat. The shifter slumped down automatically, trying to take some of the strain off his stomach, and cast nervous glances at Bobby and Jim.

“We won’t hurt you,” Jim told him carefully, clearly picking up on the younger man’s nervousness. He reached for his hand, persisting even when Sam flinched, and squeezed it safely. “You’re safe here, okay?”

Sam nodded quickly, though Dean thought that it might have more to do with a desperate urge to get Jim’s hand away from him than it was an acceptance of what was being told. He smiled reassuringly, moving over the fridge and pulling out a packet of pre-prepared pancakes, shoving a few of them into the microwave.

He fussed around for a few moments, grabbing some syrup and sugar out of one of the cupboards before diving the pancakes between two plates and heading towards the table, placing one of the plates in front of his own seat and the other in front of Sam. The seventeen-year-old looked at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Dean grinned. “You didn’t think I was still going to make you eat out of a dog bowl, did you?”

Sam blushed, ducking his head a little.

“I guess not,” He smiled, and hesitated for a few seconds before continuing. “Thank you… all of you. You saved my life.”

Bobby shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what friends are for, son. We watch each other’s backs.”

“Dude,” Dean groaned. “Enough chick flick moments for one day. Eat your pancakes before they go cold, Sammy.”

Sam blushed harder at the nickname, but obediently reached for his cutlery and began to eat. Dean couldn’t help but take in the familiar red leather around his neck, and he registered for the first time that the kid was still wearing it. He wondered, briefly, if he should offer to take it off – if, perhaps, the kid was afraid to remove it.

The way that he reached an absent had up to fiddle with it whilst he ate suggested otherwise, and Dean bit back a grin as he turned his attention to his own food.

Across the table, Bobby shot his young friend a knowing smile.

**

Sam looked exhausted by the time that he’d eaten, and when he headed upstairs for a nap, Dean barely resisted the urge to accompany him. He couldn’t understand why it was that he felt the need to be so close to Sam all the time, or why having the young man out of sight made him feel restless and irritable.

Thankfully, neither Jim nor Bobby seemed desperate to mention it, and Dean did his best to steer clear of the subject whilst he helped the men tidy up. In his haste the night before, Bobby had made one hell of a mess of the Pastor’s kitchen, and Dean left the two of them to clean up the foul-smelling blender as he mopped up the mud that had gotten smudged along the floorboards in the hallway and up the stairs.

He was halfway along the upstairs hallway when he heard the familiar rhythm of ‘Smoke On The Water’ beginning to play from his room, and he reached instinctively for his pocket. His phone wasn’t there, and he swore under his breath as he nudged the door to his bedroom open and located his cell phone as quietly as possible.

He obviously hadn’t been quick enough, Sam beginning to stir from his nap, and he darted across the room to snatch up his room, quickly pressing the mute button.

“Go back to sleep,” He whispered, stroking a hand through the younger man’s hair. “I’ve got this.”

Sam settled back into sleep as if he was following an order, and Dean made a point of tugging the door shut behind him as he glanced down at the name on the call screen. He almost swore for a second time when he saw his father’s name, feeling the beginning twinges of panic stir in his stomach.

Reluctantly, he pressed the green ‘accept call’ button and raised it to his ear.

“Dean? What the hell took you so long, kid?” His father demanded. “You missed two calls – I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry,” The young hunter apologized. “I left it upstairs by accident.”

He could practically hear John scowl. “Best you don’t make a habit of that, son. I was just ringing to let you know that I’m on my way to Jim’s – should be there tomorrow at the latest.”

“Great,” Dean answered, trying to force enthusiasm into his voice. If John caught onto the fact that it was less than honest, he didn’t let on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

John said his goodbyes, before hanging up the call, and Dean was left feeling vaguely sick. He collected the mop and wandered aimlessly downstairs towards the kitchen, phone still clasped tightly in one hand.

“Dean?” Jim asked, as soon as the young man came into view. “What’s wrong? Is Sam okay?”

Dean nodded his head. “My dad just rang. He says he’ll be here tomorrow.”

For the first time that Dean could recall, Jim swore loudly. It didn’t exactly go a long way to soothing Dean’s fears.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Not really helping there, Pastor.”

“No,” Jim acknowledged. “I suppose I’m not. I’m afraid that there’s not much we can do – as much as I’m loathe to admit it, I think we might have no other option than to hope that John listens to reason for once.”

He didn’t sound too hopeful.

“And what happens if he doesn’t?” Dean asked, somewhat hysterically. “What happens if he pulls a knife and tries to stab him? Or better yet, what if he tries to shoot him.”

Jim caught his wrist, forcing him to meet the Pastor’s eyes. His expression was deadly serious.

“Now you listen here, young man.” He said firmly.“I wasn’t lying when I said that nobody will harm Sam under my roof, and your father is no exception. If worst comes to worst, then I will remove him from my property and ensures that he stays removed until he sees reason. There will be no shooting or stabbing involved. Understood?”

Dean nodded his head slowly, dropping into his seat.

“I can’t help but feel like I’m going to have to choose between them,” he admitted quietly. “And it should be such an easy decision – hell, John’s my dad – but it’s really, really not. Sam needs me, really needs me, and I’m starting to think that maybe I need him too.”

Bobby sighed. “Nobody can make that choice for you, Dean. But if it really comes down to losing one of them, none of us will judge you on who you choose, okay? And if you choose your father, then you should know that there’s no need to worry about Sam. Jim and I will take care of him, okay? We’ll keep him safe if we need to.”

Dean nodded his head, turning in his seat when he heard the sound of feet padding along the wooden floorboards. He’d leant Sam a t-shirt and some clean socks before he’d gotten back into bed, remembering how icy the kid’s toes had been against his legs, and there something almost childlike about the way that the teenager was slouched over, rubbing his eyes.

He navigated the kitchen awkwardly, taking in each of their faces as he slowly sank into the seat next to Dean’s.

“Is something wrong?” He asked hesitantly, curling in on himself a little. Dean’s heart broke at the sight, at the knowledge that Sam automatically assumed that he was the problem.

For a moment, Dean genuinely considered lying to him and reassuring him that everything was fine, if only to wipe that shuttered expression from his face. Lying to him like that wouldn’t be fair, though, so Dean reached out and gently squeezed the young man’s shoulder.

“My dad just rang and said that he’s coming here tomorrow,” He informed the shifter softly, and hesitated for a long moment before he continued. “He’s a hunter, too, Sam… only, he doesn’t quite look at things the way that we do.”

Sam frowned for a long moment, before realization dawned on his face. “You think he’s going to hurt me.”

“We think he might try to hurt you,” Bobby interrupted soothingly. “But none of us are going to let him get away with that, you understand?”

Sam nodded absently.

“I… can’t I just shift shapes, pretend to be a dog again?” He asked, and there was a desperate hope in his voice. Dean felt like a jackass as he shook his head.

“That wouldn’t work, Sam. He already wanted me to test you, and if you’re a dog when he gets here, I’m pretty sure he’d find some way to do the tests behind my back. He’d find out that you’re a shifter sooner rather than later… same goes for telling him that you’re human.” He admitted. “We can’t run the risk of him finding out by himself. At least if we tell him straight away, we can control the outcome.”

Sam nodded his head reluctantly, and Dean found himself tugging the kid into his side, squeezing him gently.

“Everything’s gonna work out, okay?” He reassured him quietly, knowing just how scared Sam must be – his confession earlier that morning had enable Dean to understand the fear that had caused him to duck away from Jim when he’d first arrived, and he knew that an altercation with John wasn’t going to help his phobia of hunters in the slightest. “I’m gonna make sure of it, Sam.”

Sam nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Okay. Just… please don’t let yourself get hurt because of me?”

Dean pulled back to look at the shifter with a raised eyebrow, taking in the completely earnest expression on his face, and was once more taken aback by just how much Sam rated Dean’s life over his own. He had thrown himself into the line of fire more than once to save Dean from getting hurt, had almost died to protect him, and here he was telling Dean that he didn’t want that same sacrifice returned.

Dean couldn’t bring himself to promise anything, knew without a doubt that he’d stand in the path of a gun for Sam if he had to, and forced himself to nod his head instead. He’d never felt quite so guilty as when he caught a glimpse of the grateful look on Sam’s face and knew that he’d just lied to the young man for the first time. And Sam had bought it – hook, line and sinker.

**

Dean used the few hours they had left before sunset to take Sam for a tour around the rectory and its grounds, keeping the pace slow out of deference to Sam’s still-healing stomach, and couldn’t help but grin to himself when Sam looked up at the small church in awe.

“Never seen a church before, Sammy?” He teased, nudging the shifter’s shoulder gently with his own.

Sam blushed again, a look that was becoming more and more familiar as the day wore on. “Only as we drove past them… my mom had this weird superstition about them, said that we weren’t welcome there or something. That God didn’t like our kind invading the human’s houses of worship. I never really understood it.”

Dean cocked his head, watching as Sam reverently reached for the large, wooden door, and hesitated for a long moment before easing it open. He made his way hesitantly inside, stepping lightly as if scared to break the silence, and his eyes were wide as he took in the patterns that the stained glass windows cast across the floor.

Dean watched in silence as the kid turned his head this way and that, admiring the wooden arches and the large organ, the decorative pew where a well-loved copy of the bible stood open.

“It’s beautiful,” He breathed, turning to offer Dean a wide grin. “Thank you, for bringing me here. It’s… amazing.”

“We can sit for a while,” Dean offered, nodding to the pews. “If you’d like to, of course.”

Sam nodded his head eagerly, sinking down onto the worn wood of the nearest pew, taking in the hymn books tucked into the backs of the bench in front of them, and the prayer cushions tucked beneath it.

“I kind of forgot how awesome this place is,” Dean admitted, leaning forwards a little to take in the church as if he was looking at it for the first time. One the far wall, Jesus hung from the crucifix; it didn’t look morbid, as some of them did, but instead he seemed almost peaceful. “My dad used to drop me off here when I was a kid and he was following a lead for a hunt. I’d stay here for weeks… sometimes months, and when Jim had a service, I’d crawl around under the pews and look for change that people had dropped.”

Sam laughed quietly, watching Dean with happiness clear on his face.

“I remember this one time, when I was like seven or eight or something,” Dean recalled, a wide grin breaking over his own face. “And this old lady caught me. Scary woman - had these big, thick glasses that made her look like an owl – and she caught my belt as I tried to crawl past her. I thought for sure that she’d make a big fuss, pull me out and tell me off in front of everyone, but she just kept me there until everyone had gone, and then let me crawl out.”

He paused, picturing the woman in his mind’s eye, recalling the hideous floral pattern on her dress and the kind smile that her pink-painted lips had curled into.

“I stood there, waiting for her to yell, and instead she asked me how much I’d found.” He laughed. “I told her that I’d found a dollar and twenty-five cents, and she asked if I would give it to her. I was totally gutted, dude, all brooding and scowling because I figured I’d wasted an hour crawling around on the floor for nothing, but I didn’t want to get into shit with Jim, so I gave it to her. And then she handed me five dollars.”

Sam tilted his head in curiosity, and Dean smiled at him. “She said that most kids would have lied and said they hadn’t found anything, and I hadn’t even tried. She gave me five dollars every Saturday I was there for the next eight years… long after I’d stopped crawling around under the pews, and when she died she left me a letter and five-hundred dollars in her will.”

Sam smiled, soft and warm. “She sounds like a nice lady.”

“She was,” Dean agreed. “Her kids still come, sometimes. Justin and Kendra… about my age. You’d like them.”

The two of them fell silent for a long moment, lost in thought, and when Sam spoke again, his voice was soft and hesitant.

“My mom believed in God,” he confessed. “My dad thought it was a load of bullshit, but mom believed in him. She used to wear a cross around her neck, never took it off, and when the demon tried to take it from her she damn-near bit one of his fingers off.”

He smiled a little, absently, and Dean could almost picture the demon’s outrage.

“When he first caught us, she used to sing me hymns and tell me stories that she’d memorized from the bible,” He said softly, sucking in a deep breath and turning to face Dean for the first time since he’d started speaking. “She said that God always had a plan, and that sometimes he tested our loyalty. I used to laugh at her, but… the day that you and Bobby showed up, the day that you set me free, that was the first day that I ever prayed for anything.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. Some distant part of him recalled his mother telling him that angels were watching over him, but Dean had been raised mostly by a father that had never believed that the world had any good to offer him. He’d seen demons and vampires and all sorts of creatures, and he truly believed that there was hell – but he’d never quite believed that there might be a heaven, or a God.

“It sounds crazy, I know that.” The shifter continued. “But sometimes I wonder if there really is a God out there after all.”

Dean smiled softly, reaching out and cupping the shifter’s cheek in his hand.

“That doesn’t sound crazy at all,” He told Sam softly, and then he reached over and in a moment of complete and utter boldness, he pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

  


 

By the time that Dean and Sam had gotten back to the rectory, it had been past dark and Dean didn’t think he’d ever been more confused in his life. His lips were still tingling with the memory of the kiss, the phantom sensation of Sam’s lips against his own, and his mind was working a mile a minute. 

Part of him had expected Sam to push him away, and he almost wished that the younger boy had; instead, Sam had leant into the hand cupping his face, lips curving into a small smile. It had been far too easy to cross that distance between them, and it wasn’t until Dean had pulled away that the awkwardness had hit.

The two of them had sat in silence for a long while, cheeks stained in embarrassment, before Jim had stumbled across them. The Pastor had a bible clutched in one hand, humming softly as he let himself into the church; he looked almost embarrassed when he saw the two of them sitting quietly in the pew, running a hand through his dark hair, the dim light catching on the silver streaks there. 

“I didn’t know you were in here,” He apologized, brandishing the bible as he spoke. “I was just preparing for tomorrow morning’s sermon, but it can wait until later-”

Dean shook his head, rising easily to his feet. Sam followed suit, stretching his back a little with a grin of satisfaction, and Dean did his best not to remember the ballerina-esque stretching that he’d done in his canine form. “It’s alright, Jim. We were just chilling out – we’ll head back inside and leave you to it.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure?”

“Of course,” Dean grinned, inclining his head towards the book in the Pastor’s hands. “I’ll leave you and your one true love to it.”

Jim rolled his eyes affectionately. “Stop teasing me and get gone already. Get some sleep before tomorrow… I have the feeling that we’ll all need to be well-rested.”

**

After a brief moment of awkwardness on Sam’s part, clearly unsure whether he was supposed to share Dean’s bed again or sleep somewhere else, the rest of the night was uneventful. Once Dean made it clear that there was more than room for two, the shifter had climbed in and settled into a loose ball on his side; Dean had done the same, ignoring the feeling of contentment that curled in his stomach when he felt the long line of warmth where Sam’s back pressed against his own.

He’d drifted off to sleep almost immediately, and had awoken what felt like moments later. The room was still dark, the first rays of sunlight just starting peek through the small gap in the curtains; Sam was a warm weight, curled against him, head resting on the hunter’s chest. It was ridiculous that this felt  _familiar_ , that even though it was warm skin and soft hair pressed against him, it felt just as normal as sharing a bed with Sam the dog.

Dean didn’t cuddle. He never had – not in the few, brief relationships he’d involved himself in, and definitely not with the beautiful women that he’d taken back to motel rooms all across the country. He’d been raised to see everyone and everything as a threat, and he’d never let himself get that close to anyone before. 

With Sam, it was different. The kid had wormed his way past Dean’s every defence wriggled his way into the hunter’s life under the guise of a defenceless dog, and despite his father’s suspicions, Dean had never seen him as a threat. Even now, when he should have been beyond pissed that Sam had lied to him for so long, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry.

Sam was a shapeshifter. He was one of the things that they hunted – that Dean had been raised to hate with every fiber of his being – but for past month or so, he had also been the one thing that Dean could rely on, regardless of everything around him. As a dog, Sam had been his best friend. As a human, Dean was starting to think that he might be more.

He’d never seen himself as the kind of person that would fall in love… hell, he’d always figured that the life of a hunter meant he’d likely die before he had the chance. He’d watched his father fall apart after Mary had died, and he’d told himself that he never wanted to go through that – in a life like theirs, chances were that you were going to get hurt, and Dean knew that he could never bring himself to introduce somebody else to that kind of life.

Until Sam, who was already a part of this world – who already knew what it was to be hunted, who had been through so much and had proven himself to be a survivor. Who had been so willing to live the rest of his life as a dog, because that was the only way he’d get to be with Dean… who had been so willing to die for him.

His stomach was tangled in knots, confusion warring with instinct and the desperate desire to never be in a position where he could understand the pain that his father had felt. 

Sam stirred, making a sleepy noise as his eyelashes fluttered gently, and Dean soothed a gentle hand down his back. 

There was no denying that the kid was gorgeous. Fox-slanted hazel eyes, tanned skin and dark hair that curled gently around his ears, tickled down the nape of his neck; his body was lithe and sleek, skinnier than Dean would like, but toned and firm. Strong shoulders and delicate wrists, the high cheekbones of a model and soft dimples that made Dean’s knees feel a little weak. And underneath all of that, he was still only seventeen – still just a kid that had gone through far too much, had born witness to the darkest parts of the world, things that Dean wished he could have protected him from. 

Sam made a quiet, sleepy noise, shifting in Dean’s hold onto his side, and Dean moved to curl himself around the younger man without thought. Sam settled into his hold, pressing his back more firmly against the hunter’s chest, and Dean felt his eyes close of his their own violation.

Soon, his father would pull his truck into Jim’s driveway and confront him. In just a few hours, Dean could be forced to choose between the young man curled into his arms and the man who had raised him.

For now, he was warm and comfortable, Sam curled peacefully into his arms, and that was enough.

**

It was hours later that the two of them finally emerged from their room. The sun had well and truly risen, warming the oak floorboards beneath their feet, making the dark red of the hallway walls appear bright and vibrant. Dean couldn’t help but smile a little as he made his way towards the kitchen, following the smell of bacon. 

Jim and Bobby were already there, bacon and sausages sizzling lightly as they cooked. Bobby was reading a newspaper, and Dean knew that he would have already instinctively scoured for hunts – barely a month after he’d starting hunting alone, Dean had surprised himself by realizing that he was no longer capable of reading a paper without looking for hints of monsters and ghouls between the lines.

He gratefully crossed the room, sinking into a seat, and was surprised when Sam didn’t follow him immediately. Despite both Jim and Bobby doing their best to ensure that the shifter knew that they would never hurt him, and that they would do anything in their power to keep his safe, the kid had still been nervous and skittish around them. If he was honest, Dean wasn’t exactly upset that the kid seemed happier to stick with him.

Now, however, Sam hesitated between the kitchen and Jim, and sucked in a deep breath before turning to the hunter.

“Do you… would you like any help?”He asked quietly. His voice trembled a little, but he looked as sincere as Dean had ever seen him, and Jim smiled slowly at the offer.

“That would be wonderful, Sam,” He replied gently. “Thank you. Would you like to serve up those sausages onto that plate over there? I’ll do the bacon.”

Sam nodded, carefully moving the plate a little closer and taking the spatula that Jim handed him. He served the sausages up with a speedy efficiency, and the three hunters pretended not to notice the way he flinched every time Jim got too close. Dean had never felt so proud of anyone before, and he couldn’t help but grin widely as he watched the two of them navigate the kitchen, eventually serving up a beautiful cooked breakfast for the four of them to enjoy.

When Sam settled into his seat next to Dean, he was smiling slightly, and Dean wondered if he was feeling just as proud of himself as Dean was. 

“Find anything interesting?” Dean asked after a long moment, swallowing a mouthful of food as he tipped his head towards the newspaper.

Bobby shook his head. “Nothing, looks clean for the moment.”

“Damn,” Dean grinned. “Was kind of looking for an excuse to get out of the house there.”

Bobby chuckled. “Sorry, kid. I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, and Dean knocked their knees together under the table, trying to reassure the younger man that he wasn’t just going to leave him there to face up to John Winchester by himself. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that at this point I’d rather get this whole thing done sooner rather than later.”

“Don’t blame you, kid.” Bobby acknowledged. “I ain’t one for anticipation myself.”

“I’m sure that everything will be alright once we manage to make him see sense.” Jim said softly, rising to his feet and carrying his plate to the sink, slipping it inside the bucket of soapy water there. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve agreed to meet some of my flock in the church. Feel free to phone me when your father arrives, I’ll keep my cell phone in my pocket.”

Dean nodded his head in acknowledgment, nudging Sam’s knee again. “Wanna see if we can find a movie on the TV? Kill some time?”

“Sounds good.” Sam smiled and then, hesitantly. “Thank you for breakfast, Pastor.”

Jim grinned. “You’re welcome, Sam.”

Resisting the urge to smile ear-to-ear, Dean collected their plates and headed for the sink, washing them quickly but thoroughly before placing them on the draining board. Sam waited patiently for him to finish, and Dean offered him a small smile as the two of them headed towards the small living area at the front of the house. 

The TV was small and slightly fuzzy, but it was a far cry better than the ones that Dean had endured in motel rooms across the country, and after a few seconds of channel hopping, he stumbled across the Ghostbusters. Grinning to himself, he tossed the remote onto the armchair and settled into his spot on the sofa, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Next to him, Sam wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, curling his legs up towards his chest and resting his head against the back of the sofa as he watched.

He reminded Dean of a little kid in his sweatpants and wooly socks, curling in on himself and lazily blinking hazel eyes. There was a barely noticeable hint of red leather at the neck of his shirt, the glint of the silver buckle when the light flashed off it.

“You like Ghostbusters, right?” The hunter asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, blushing a little. “I’ve never seen it.”

“You’ve never seen it?” Dean mimed a heart attack. “Dude. You’ve been missing out.”

“I hope you know that I now expect this experience to be completely life-changing,” Sam teased quietly, nodding towards the screen. “Better not disappoint.”

“Baby,” Dean drawled with an exaggerated wink. “I never disappoint.”

He didn’t think he’d ever heard Sam laugh so much before.

**

It was almost four by the time that Dean heard the distinctive sound of his father’s truck pulling into the space next to the Impala. He and Sam had watched all of the Ghostbusters, and were halfway through  _Dancing with Wolves_ , and they were so engrossed that Dean honestly almost missed the noise at first. 

His head whipped around to the door, and he could feel the anticipation begin to churn in the pit of his stomach.

“Dean?” Sam asked quietly, eyes wide and his whole body trembling. “Is that…”

The young hunter couldn’t bring himself to talk, and settled for nodding his head, rising slowly to his feet. Bobby had retreated into the study for a few hours before, and Dean briefly considered going to get him, but the last thing that they needed was for John to feel ambushed.

They’d have at least a few moments before Dean had to start explaining anything, and by then Bobby would surely have registered John’s voice and come to offer his support. 

Steeling himself, Dean made his way through the house and towards the kitchen, hearing the sounds of his father’s heavy tread as he made his way across the porch and they both entered the kitchen at the same time. In a move that surprised even him, Dean crossed the room in a few quick strides and tugged his father into a hug. 

Despite the tension between the two of them of late, the unfamiliar silences that stretched throughout their phone conversations, John hugged back just as hard as he always had, and Dean felt a little of his worry dissipate. As bad as things sometimes were between the two of them, there was no denying that his father loved him, and if everything went to shit at least he had one last hug to remember that by.

“It’s good to see you, son,” The older Winchester muttered, pulling back with his hands on the younger man’s arms, drinking in the sight of him. “You’re looking good. Healthy.”

There was a glint of something like sorrow in his eyes, gone almost as soon as Dean caught it, and the younger hunter felt something soften a little at the sight of it.

“You look good too, Dad,” He grinned, stepping back and leading his father inside the small kitchen, eyes flitting to where Sam was standing just inside of the doorway, shifting awkwardly and tangling his fingers together in nervousness. “It’s good to see you… I have someone for you to meet. This is a friend of mine, Sam.”

He turned to the teenager as he introduced him, taking in the look on his face as he glanced up and caught sight of John Winchester for the first time. He expected him to smile in that same nervous, polite way that he had done with Jim and Bobby, but instead the blood drained from his face and fell back half a step as if he’d been hit.

Behind him, Dean heard the familiar sound of the safety clicking off a handgun, and he whirled on his father. John Winchester was stood with his feet a shoulder-width apart, safety flicked off and gun trained directly in the centre of Sam’s forehead. Dean felt sick, shifting his body deliberately into the line of fire, hands shaking by his side.

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” He cried, backing up a little, glancing over his shoulder at Sam. The shifter was standing stock-still, eyes trained not on the gun but on John’s face, and something horrific registered in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “What… you two know each other?”  
His father turned to face him for the first time, eyes radiating with fury, and for a brief and hysterical moment, Dean wondered if his father would shoot straight through him to get to Sam.

“Tell me that you didn’t know that he wasn’t human, Dean.” The older hunter growled. “Please, for the love of God, tell me that this was naivety and not complete and utter idiocy.”

Dean felt his spine stiffen, felt every protective instinct inside him swell with irritation, and his hands clenched by his sides. “Don’t talk about him like that. He’s different, dad – he’s saved my life more than once, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve a gun being trained on him. He’s done nothing wrong.”

John raised his eyebrow cynically. “Done nothing wrong? He’s a shifter, Dean, and I’ll bet that he’s just as much of a cold-blooded killer as his father was.”

Dean felt like the floor had dropped out from underneath him. “Dad? What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t tell you, then?” John asked, and there was something smug in his expression. “His father was a killer. Murdered three pregnant women and four children, plus countless others, before I finally tracked him down and put a bullet through his head.”

Something clicked in his head. Sam talking about the accusations made about his father, saying that he’d been accused of killing people. He hadn’t mentioned that three of them had been pregnant when they’d been killed, or that some of them had been children, and the revelation made him feel sick to his stomach.

“I…” Dean turned slightly, eyes flying to Sam in disbelief. “Sam? What?”

Sam’s face darkened. “He’s lying. My father never hurt anyone, not up until the day that your father broke into our house and  _murdered_  him right in front of me and my mom. He was a good man.”

“He was a killer.”

“No he wasn’t!” Sam yelled, and Dean could see the tears in his eyes, could remember the pain in his voice just days ago when he’d first told Dean the reason that he’d ended up in the demon’s cages. “He was innocent and you  _killed_  him!”

Dean floundered, hesitating between his brother and the boy who’d grown to be his best friend, unsure of whose side to take. 

John made the decision for him in the instant that his finger tightened on the gun’s trigger, and Dean found himself whirling forwards, snatching the gun from his father’s hand in a practised movement. The gun fired between them, and Sam yelped, jumping forward and tugging Dean away, frantically looking him over for some kind of wound.

All of Dean’s previous hesitation disappeared, and his hand slipped up to rest against the younger man’s cheekbone, forcing him to meet the hunter’s eyes. His cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes filled with panic, and Dean couldn’t resist the urge to pull him in close and wrap his arms around him, feeling the younger boy trembling in his grasp.

“I’m okay,” He reassured, tangling one hand in the younger man’s hair and rubbing the other up and down his back soothingly. “It hit the floor. I’m fine.”

Sam nodded against his shoulder, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths as he desperately tried to compose himself. 

“You promised,” he muttered quietly, hand clenching and relaxing around the material of Dean’s shirt. “You promised you wouldn’t get hurt because of me.”

On the other side of the room, John was watching the two of them with narrowed eyes. He’d retrieved his gun from the floor, clutching it at his side so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He snarled, looking nothing like the man that had – once upon a time – tucked Dean in at night with a kiss to his forehead. “I could have shot you!”

Dean narrowed his own eyes. “And if I hadn’t have done it, you definitely would have shot Sam! I don’t care what you think, or what you say. He’s here to stay, dad, whether you like it or not.”

It was in that moment that Bobby appeared in the kitchen’s doorway, face flushed with exertion and glistening with sweat. He surveyed the room with a practised eye, taking in the way that Sam was huddled tightly against Dean, and the gun that John had white-knuckled in his grip, before he located the brand new bullet hole in Pastor Jim’s kitchen floor.

“You stupid sonofabitch,” He growled, turning on John with fury clear on his face. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen him look so angry. “You tried to  _shoot_  him?”

“He’s a monster.”

“He’s a kid.” Bobby snarled. “I don’t care what you say – we’re not in the business of hurting kids. Now either you put the gun down, and talk about this like a grown man, or you get the hell out and you don’t come back.”

John shook his head.

“Then you can’t stay.” Dean’s head jerked up and took in the sight of Pastor Jim stood on the other side of the room, arms crossed across his chest and face firm. “I promised Sam that no harm would come to him here. I intend to keep that promise.”

John growled. “Are you serious? How the hell as he got  _three_  of you wrapped around his finger?”

“John.” Bobby warned. “I’m serious. Sit down and shut up or get the hell out.”

For a long moment, there was what looked like some kind of stand-off All five of them stood still and silent, and Dean tightened his grip on Sam reflexively, waiting with baited breath for John to make his decision. After a long moment, John reluctantly held up his hands, placing his gun on the kitchen counter with exaggerated movements.

“Sit down.” Bobby said firmly. John scowled but complied, and it was a long moment before Dean reluctantly released Sam and moved forwards, sinking into the seat opposite him. Sam was still wide-eyed and trembling, but he followed the hunter almost instinctively, tugging his chair closer to Dean’s as he lowered himself onto it. 

“I can’t believe this.” John snarled. “Since when do we invite the things we hunt into our houses? Since when do we sit down at a table and fucking  _discuss_  whether or not we’re going to kill them? I thought we were goddamn hunters.”

Jim slammed his hand on the table. “You’re forgetting your place, Winchester. This is my house, and you are here as  _my_  guest, and I won’t tolerate you treating  _anybody_  like they’re less than human. Do you understand me?”

John muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like  _‘he_ is _less than human’_ , but he didn’t protest.

“Now,” Jim said, taking a deep breath and visibly calming himself down. “Why don’t we talk this through rationally? And don’t be a smartass, Winchester.”

John scowled, but didn’t say anything more. 

Dean felt his stomach sink just that little bit further, because no matter how long they discussed this for, he knew that John already had his mind set against Sam. There was nothing that either of them could say that would make this better; John hated the very idea of the shifter, hated the idea of including him as part of their lives, and Dean refused to live without him.

“Why don’t you tell your dad how you met Sam?” Bobby prompted, nudging Dean’s knee with his own. “Get him up to date on the past few weeks?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure. It was… The demon we were hunting hadn’t just kidnapped humans – there was allsorts in that place. Werewolves, vampires, a couple of djinns and Sam. He was in his… dog form, curled up in a ball in the back of a cage – the demon had kept him in there for months, with this heavy metal collar on him. He barely had the energy to move, so Bobby and I decided to take him home.”

  
John scowled. “I  _told_  you to test him, Dean. Since when do you disobey an order?”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” Dean snapped. “I’m twenty-one years old, dad! I’m capable of making my own goddamn decisions every once in a while!”

His father rolled his eyes petulantly. “Yeah? Well, look how well that worked out for you.”

“It worked out great, dad. Sam’s  _great_ , he’s saved my life more than once since the day that we pulled him from that cage, and you know what? He’s done a hell of a lot more for me over the past few weeks than you have in years. He’s my friend, dad, and if you can’t accept that then…”

John raised an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Is that what’s happening here? You’re choosing some mongrel of a shapeshifter over your own father?”

“I don’t want to,” Dean said carefully. “I want you  _both_ in my life, but if you force me to choose then you’re not going to like my decision.”

“Dean…” Sam said quietly, reaching for the hunter’s hand under the table and squeezing it lightly. “He’s your dad. I… I’ll be okay on my own. I could stick around Blue Earth, find a job somewhere-”

“No. If you want to stick around, then we’re both sticking around. I’m not just going to skip out on you. We’re in this together now, okay?”

The emotion that flashed across Sam’s face in that moment was pure, unaltered relief, and Dean felt his heart swell a little at the sight of it – well and truly sure, for the first time, that he was making the right decision.

“Well don’t come crying to me when he tries to rip your throat out in your sleep.” John snarled, slamming his hands down on the table as he pushed up from his chair, snatching his gun from the counter. He shoved past Jim as he got to the door, knocking the Pastor into the doorframe with a dull thud. 

The distinctive sound of the truck’s door slamming shut rang through the house seconds later, followed by the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires as John shot away from the house. 

“Well,” Bobby said around a chuckle, crossing the room to sink into John’s vacated chair. “That went well.”


	7. Chapter 7

  
Sam was quiet that night. 

He stayed tucked close to Dean’s side, wandering aimlessly after him as the hunter shuffled around the house, and Dean was reminded more than a little of the dog that had stuck close to his heels for weeks. At first, the hunter left him to it, figured that maybe the kid would bring up whatever was bothering him whenever he was ready, but as the day wore on more and more he began to worry that it would never happen.

It wasn’t until almost ten o’clock that night, the two of them tucked up on the sofa watching a movie with a blanket draped around them, that the shifter finally began to talk.

“Are you sure that you made the right decision?” He asked softly, eyes locked on the blanket, watching his own fingers as they tangled themselves in the material.

Dean raised an eyebrow, tugging the young man closer. “What do you mean?”

“About your dad,” Sam explained softly, the faintest tinge of crimson beginning to stain his cheeks. “And about me. I mean, he’s your family… you didn’t have to make him leave just so I could stay. I mean, you barely even know me. What happens if one day you wake up and regret it? He might not take you back after this.”

The hunter felt something akin to pity stir somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, as he realized – not for the first time – just how little Sam thought of himself. Sam had more or less admitted, all those days ago, that his biggest fear since Dean had found him had been the moment that the hunter either decided to leave him or kill him.

In the time since then, Dean liked to think that he’d made the shifter understand that he would never even _consider_  hurting him, much less killing him. It was clear, however, that the young man still lived in fear of being left behind. After losing everything that he’d ever known in such quick succession, it was no wonder that the kid was convinced that it was at least partially his fault.

“Sam,” Dean told the shifter softly, nudging his chin up and forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. “I will _never_  regret choosing you. I need you to understand that. I…I know that we haven’t really known each other long, all things considered, but the truth is that I couldn’t imagine my life without you anymore. From the moment that I first found you, you became such a huge part of my life – even as a dog, you were my best friend. Now… well, now you’re even more than that.”

He paused, searching those beautiful hazel eyes for a long moment, before he sucked in a deep breath and continued. “I’ve never felt the way I feel about you before – not about anybody. It’s new, and in some ways it’s kind of scary, but I’m in this for the long haul. As long as you want me in your life, I’ll be there, and if that means that my dad and I aren’t on the best of terms, well, that’s something that the two of us will eventually sort out. I’ll do anything you want. You want to give up hunting? I’ll quit. You want to find a house and settle down? I’ll do it. You just have to say the word, Sam.”

Tears were brewing in the shifter’s eyes, and just when Dean was beginning to panic and think that he might have misread the entire situation, the younger man’s face slowly broke into a smile.

“I… I’m in this for the long haul, too.”

Dean could feel himself grinning so wide that his face almost felt like it was breaking in two, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care that he probably looked ridiculous. Slowly, giving Sam enough time to pull away if he wanted to, he cupped the shifter’s face and leant in to press their lips together.

It was a chaste kiss, at first; just as sweet as the one that they’d shared in the church, and Dean felt contentment curl in the pit of his stomach, a strange warmth that was unlike anything he’d felt before. He brushed his hands through Sam’s hair, and slowly began to pull away.

He barely made it a few inches before one of Sam’s hands reached his face and the young man crushed their lips back together again. Dean felt his body respond almost instantly, jeans feeling just that little bit tighter as the younger man opened his mouth to let him in. It was hot, the perfect mix of tongues and teeth, and there was a sense of urgency there that hadn’t been there before.

Slowly, trying not to freak the kid out, Dean shifted his position, gently pressing the younger man back onto the cushions. Sam went willingly, whimpering a little into the kiss as Dean settled his weight over the younger man’s body and their hips pressed together.

“Jesus,” Dean panted, breaking the kiss and turning his head, nipping his way along the shifter’s jawline and towards his neck. He teased the skin there, sucking softly and occasionally nibbling until it was red and sensitive, and underneath him Sam grew gradually more restless. 

“Dean,” He groaned, hand tangling in the older man’s hair and gently tugging his hair back. Startled, the hunter went willingly, eyes wide as he began to wonder whether he’d taken things to far – whether he’d somehow managed to hurt the shifter, or freak him out. Instead, he saw that Sam’s eyes were blown with lust, and the young man hesitantly began to speak. “Maybe… we could go upstairs? To bed?”

For a moment, Dean couldn’t deny the hot spike of disappointment at the idea that Sam was ending it, and then the shifter's hand slowly slipped from his face to his collarbone, lightly tracing patterns there, and the hunter realized what the young man was really asking.

He nodded slightly, carefully manoeuvring himself off the sofa and reaching out a hand to help the younger man do the same. The two of them made their way up the stairs slowly, fingers still tangled together, and it wasn’t until they were inside the room with the door firmly shut behind them that Dean finally hesitated.

Sam had perched himself on the edge of the bed, trembling fingers clasped in his lap as he waited for Dean to make the first move. 

“Sam,” The hunter said softly, crossing the room and sinking to his knees in front of the younger man, carefully cupping his face. “Are you sure that this is what you want? I don’t mind if you want to take it slowly. I don’t want you to think that you have to do this, or anything.”

Sam smiled softly, reaching forward and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, tangling their hands together. “I know you’d let me take it slow, but I want this. I promise.”

Dean nodded slowly, allowing the younger man to tug him onto the bed, lying next to him and casting his eyes towards the nightstand. He’d never brought a girl back to Jim’s – because there were some lines that just  _could not_  be crossed – but he’d always kept a bottle of lube tucked into the back of the nightstand, for when he wanted a little extra slick for jerking off, and his spare condoms in case he ever ran out.

He didn’t think he’d ever been more grateful for their presence than the moment that Sam tugged him into another kiss, hard and fast and dirtier than any kid as innocent looking as he was had any right to kiss. Dean’s body reacted instinctively, arms coming up to bracket either side of the kid’s head as he rolled over him, grinding his hips down slightly.

Sam made a delicious mewling noise and Dean thought that it might just be the best noise that he’d ever heard. One of his hands shifted, traced lightly along the side of the younger man’s jaw before slipping down to the hem of his t-shirt, slowly slipping inside. His fingers traced along warm, smooth skin – skipped lightly over the all-too familiar scar left behind by a silver knife – and moved gradually upwards, taking the shirt with it.

Sam’s back arched, hips rolling up in an unsteady rhythm in an effort to try and get closer to the hunter. His own hands were working Dean’s shirt off at a much more hurried pace, fingers clenching and unclenching in the material as he tugged it over the older man’s head. Dean grinned as their mouths met again, hot skin pressing against hot skin.

He could feel the muscles in Sam’s stomach contracting and expanding; it was a strange sensation to have the hard, flat planes of his chest and the muscled dip of his stomach spread out beneath him in place of the soft skin and smooth curves of a girl. Dean had experimented with boys before, but only ever when he was drunk – doing it now, sober and hyper-aware of every movement, was perhaps the hottest thing that he’d ever experienced.

His head dipped down to the long line of Sam’s neck, bare and exposed and looking as if it was begging to be marked, and he nudged the collar aside with his nose as he marked the skin there. The shifter’s hands were tugging ineffectively at his jeans, laughter breaking free from his throat as the button refused to come free. The part of Dean that had been worried that they were going too fast relaxed at the sound, and he pressed a sweet kiss to the young man’s lips before he pulled back and easily tugged his own jeans off.

He hesitated at the button of Sam’s, eyes flitting up to search for approval, and Sam nodded his head with a shy grin. Dean didn’t need to be told twice, gently but quickly slipping the item of clothing down the younger man’s legs and throwing them carelessly aside.

The front of Sam’s boxers were tented just as obviously as his own, damp with precome, and Dean grinned wickedly as he lined their hips up and pressed down, letting his weight fall back against the younger man. The sensation that surged through him when their hips met was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and his hips jerked in a rough thrust without his permission.

Sam made that soft mewling noise again, twisting his head to press it into the pillow as his hips jerked up; it occurred to Dean that he was trying to be quiet, that Jim and Bobby were sleeping in their rooms just a few doors down. He was more surprised by the revelation that he didn’t care.

“Come on, Dean,” The kid groaned, twisting his hips in a sinuous moment that had Dean biting his lip in an effort to stop himself coming there and then. “Please.”

It would have taken a better man than Dean Winchester to resist the sight of such a beautiful young man spread out and begging, and he twisted his body to fumble for the lube and condoms even as Sam worked to rid the both of them from their boxers. 

The material tangled around their legs for a moment, and Dean had a brief moment of panic when he nearly overbalanced and toppled over the edge of the bed. Laughing, Sam managed to grab ahold of him and keep him steady, even as a few well-timed kicks of his legs finally rid them of the last of their clothes.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. There was no denying that Sam was gorgeous – hell, Dean had known that since the moment that he’d first lain eyes on the younger man, bleeding and a hair’s breath away from dying but still disarmingly beautiful – but now it seemed more obvious than ever. 

“Please,” He whispered, catching Dean’s wrist and tugging lightly. “I need you. Come on.”

Dean nodded slowly, uncharacteristically nervous as he fumbled the lid on the lube and finally popped it open; he squeezed it too hard, coating his hand thicker than he’d intended to, and just barely resisted the urge to blush like a schoolgirl as he wiped some of it on his thigh.

It was beyond ridiculous that he was this nervous. He’d had sex before… hell, he’d even had sex with other guys before. This was nothing new. Except for the fact that sex previous to this had always come in the form of nameless faces and one night stands; this was different because it  _meant_  something, because Sam wouldn’t be leaving first thing in the morning with a quick thanks and a peck on the lips.

He dipped his head to kiss the shifter sweetly as his fingers brushed gradually lower and lower, until one of them was slowly and steadily pressing inside. Sam gasped a little, but the hard line of him pressed against the hunter’s hip was more than enough proof that he wanted it, hips jerking a little. Dean wasn’t sure if it was his body trying to buck him off or pull him deeper, and he slowed his movements a little, shifting his fingers until he found that place inside that had Sam’s head tipping back with a quiet cry. 

He shifted forwards, keeping up his assault on the sensitive spot as he brought their mouths together in another kiss. This one was softer than the ones before it, sweet and heady where the others had been frantic; Dean could feel Sam’s heartbeat hammering against his chest, could feel the moment that he slipped another finger inside and it picked up its pace, until he thought it might hammer straight out of the younger man’s chest. 

Sam bucked his hips again, and this time Dean knew that he was trying to get closer – recognized the writhe of his hips and the panting breaths against his lips. A third finger slipped in alongside the first two with only the barest hint of resistance, and Sam let loose another cry – he had just enough self-control that it was quiet, and Dean felt his own hips jerk against the younger man’s thigh at the sight of him.

“I’m ready,” Sam panted, tugging on Dean’s shoulder. Dean pressed in one last time, worked his fingers relentlessly against his prostate until his back was arched and his cock was flushed. He reached for the condom then, fumbled it when it slipped through lube-smeared fingers, and narrowly avoided dropping it on the floor. Sam watched him silently for a few seconds, and then hesitantly reached out and caught Dean’s wrist. “I don’t… We don’t have to use one. If you’re clean, I guess. I…”

Dean blinked. “I am. You want me to leave it off?”

“Please,” Sam nodded, and incredibly –  _impossibly_  – he was blushing. Dean grinned, tossing the small packet aside and shifting his weight to pull back a little, drizzling some lube onto himself and hesitating for a brief second. Sam’s hips bucked in invitation, and it was all of the incentive that Dean needed to line himself up and _push_. It was tight, and Sam hissed out a staggered breath as the older man pressed forwards. He went slowly, easing his way into the shifter’s body.

By the time that he was fully seated, both of them were panting and gasping. Sam was fluttering around him, muscles trying to adjust to the feeling of being spread so open.

“Okay,” Sam nodded after a few seconds, shifting his hips in a movement that threatened to have Dean’s eyes rolling up into his head. “You can move.”

Dean didn’t need telling twice. He pulled out slowly, giving the younger man a chance to adjust to the sensation before he pressed back in again, setting up a slow rhythm that gradually picked up its pace. Sam was making small, needy noises in the back of his throat, gasping against the skin of Dean’s neck as his nails dragged along the hunter’s back, and Dean’s hips rolled him impossibly deeper at the sensation.

He brushed against Sam’s prostate once, twice, and that was enough to have the kid’s back arching as he came completely untouched; Dean kept up his own pace, and it was the sensation of muscles contracting around him to the point of pain that had his own eyes rolling back into his head. He fucked them both through it, until he was over-sensitive and wrung out, and only then did he slip out.

Sam’s chest was heaving, hazel eyes radiating bone-deep contentment, and Dean couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he flopped down next to the younger man, curling him into his arms. Sam went willingly, slotting their bodies together like it’s what they were built to do, his head coming over to rest on Dean’s chest. 

He knew that they should get up and get clean – or that he should at least track down the wayward condom packet and tuck back into the relative privacy of his bedside drawer. Instead, he lay still and silent and watched the way that Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand curled slightly over Dean’s heart, and he felt contentment stir thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

He was still smiling when his own eyes began to shutter, and sleep finally claimed him.

For the first time that he could remember, he was well and truly happy.


	8. Chapter 8

  


“Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?”

Dean grinned, tossing the weapons duffel into the Impala’s trunk, settling it next to the two already tucked inside. Bobby was clearly uncomfortable – he’d removed his hat to run a hand through his graying hair, wincing slightly when his fingers tangled on a knot. His eyes were serious, filled with worry and concern, and Dean was surprised at the sudden rush of affection that washed through him.

“We’ll be fine,” Sam reassured quietly from next to him. Over the past couple of weeks, Sam had gotten progressively less scared of Jim and Bobby – to the point where he and Bobby would spend hours poring over mythology books in the evenings, Sam occasionally laughing at all of the ‘ludicrous’ things written about shapeshifters. It was more progress than Dean had expected the young man to make, and he was taken aback by the idea that someone who’d gone through so much could be so strong. “Dean seems to think that he knows what he’s doing.”

Dean scowled, giving the younger man a light shove. “Hey! I  _do_  know what I’m doing, smartass. I’ve been a hunter since I was a kid. It’s really not that hard.”

Jim raised an eyebrow at the statement, leaning against the railing along one side of the porch steps, arms crossed and face amused. “Not that hard? That’s not what you said when we faced off against that werewolf in Missouri. Or the time that the selkie in Tampa tried to drown you in the bathtub. Or the time-“

Dean waved a hand in the air dramatically. “Alright! Okay, we get the picture. Hunting can be hard… and kind of dangerous. But I do know what I’m doing, and it’s not like I’m gonna go wandering into hunts that I don’t know I can take – I wouldn’t risk anything happening to Sam. He’s just a beginner, after all.”

He offered the young man a teasing wink, and Sam rolled his eyes fondly.

“Just be careful.” Jim told them seriously, a soft smile curling the edges of his lips up. “And remember that you’re always welcome here. Both of you.”

Dean nodded his head. “We’ll be back soon, okay? And thank you. For everything.”

He didn’t wait around to see what the two older hunters had to say about his thanks, instead striding quickly to the driver’s side of the Impala and siding into her seat, swinging the door shut behind him in an effort to ward off any more attempts at a chick-flick moment. Seconds later, Sam was slipping into the passenger seat as if he’d been doing it for years, and Dean was surprised that the way he curled himself into the seat was already becoming familiar.

He glanced back at Jim’s house just once as he pulled out of the driveway, grinning despite himself as he took in the sight of the Pastor already arguing with Bobby about something or other. The two of them were waving their arms dramatically, gesturing like idiots, and the hunter knew that they’d be back to being best friends within a matter of minutes. No matter how much the two of them liked to deny it.

Next to him, Sam was warm and smiling and when he slipped his hand over the bench seat to tangle their fingers together, Dean didn’t complain.

“Where to?” Sam asked quietly, voice drifting over the faint strands of Zeppelin playing through the speakers. His hazel eyes were locked on Dean without worry or suspicion, but with trust and the blind faith that he’d shown ever since he’d first stumbled into Dean’s life on four furry legs.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, grinning despite himself. 

“I was thinking we’d just drive.” He admitted, glancing over at the younger man. “No set destination, no maps or directions. Just… drive.”

Slowly, Sam’s grin began to widen, and he nodded his head slowly. “Just drive? I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had, Dean Winchester.”


End file.
